


Force

by menin_aeide



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Although things get blurry because hey, And an ethical therapist, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Armitage Hux Has Issues, BDSM, Ben Solo is a considerate Dom, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, Did I mention that Snoke is a racist arsehole too?, Dom/sub, Dominant Kylo Ren, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Violence, Psychological Porn, Snoke Being a Dick, Sub!Hux, Therapist Ben, These people talk A LOT, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 43,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23019370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menin_aeide/pseuds/menin_aeide
Summary: Ben Solo is a therapist, and a good one. Armitage Hux is at the end of his tether, but still insufferable.Therapy with Ben, predictably, won't work. (Because Hux is an arse and won't even consider it).But perhaps Ben can help Hux in a different way, after all...NOTE: This is mainly an outlet for my Id Vortex (https://fanlore.org/wiki/Id_Vortex). So I expect things will become seriously kinky and twisted as the story progresses. Consider yourselves warned.NOTE 2: Story completed. Still plenty kinky, but it turns out that, unsurprisingly given the time when this was written (COVID-19 season), my id also wants comfort and care. So, you know, it's also quite a soft story. Two for the price of one!
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren, Dopheld Mitaka/Phasma, Phasma/Rey
Comments: 212
Kudos: 308





	1. Chapter 1

“I don’t really know why I’m here, to tell the truth.”

They are sitting in Ben’s office, a pleasant, light-filled room with book-lined shelves, deeply hued carpets, and blonde wood furniture – a room deliberately designed to put people at ease.

Which, right now, it is miserably failing to do.

The man sitting across the desk briskly combs his fingers through his red hair, an unconscious gesture that Ben suspects is fairly unusual, and quite indicative of his mental state. Because otherwise, he’s the very picture of rigid self-control: his impeccable bespoke dark blue suit, his ramrod-straight posture where he sits, not even touching the back of the chair, his precisely selected words in that clipped upper-class English accent.

All this is belied by his hand combing nervously through his hair, by the dark circles beneath his eyes. And by the sense Ben gets that this is a man so tightly wound up that he could _snap_ any minute. He’s used to seeing troubled people – that’s his job after all. But the contrast between the appearance which he is making such efforts to uphold and the torment within the man is so strong, it’s painful.

The man glares at him, as if in challenge, probably expecting Ben to say something like _Why do_ you _think you are here?_ Instead, Ben says, blandly: “You mentioned that Ms Phasma gave you my name?”

“Nicole Phasma. Yes. We work together. In the same place, that is. Not really together – we’re in different divisions. She mentioned that you had helped her girlfriend. Rey Jakku. She spoke very highly of you.”

Ben nods. “You work at First Order Financial too, then?”

“Yes. Phasma mentioned that you worked there for a while, and that’s how she met you?”

“I worked as the inhouse psychologist at First Order for a while, yes.” _Until I realised that your CEO is a psychopathic megalomaniac_ , he thinks, as an image of his last meeting with Snoke flashes unbidden into his mind. That… had not gone well. He says nothing about this, of course. “I don’t think I ever saw you there, though.”

“I was still in the London office then,” replies the man. “I moved here last year.”

“Ah.” He pauses for a second. “And how did my name come up, if I may ask?”

The man looks down at his hands. Which are extremely pale – like the rest of him –, slender and elegant. And right now, clenched into tense fists. “I’ve been having… trouble at work. It was Phasma who suggested that I should come.”

“What sort of trouble?”

The nervous carding again, this time so harsh it’s almost tugging. Ben wants to wince in sympathy with the man’s poor, tortured hair. “I’ve been slipping. Making mistakes. Stupid mistakes. Phasma thinks it’s indicative of something deeper. But then she would. She’s that sort of person. And she insisted.”

 _I’ve only come to see you to get her off my back_ hovers, unspoken yet obvious, in the air between them. And yet…

“You are worried, though.”

The man’s face tightens harshly, a mix of self-defence and, yes, fear. “I can deal with it. I just need…” His sentence trails into silence, unfinished.

“What do you need?”

The man looks up at Ben, his eyes flashing with what seems like displaced rage. And then he shuts his eyes tightly, clenches his jaw, and takes a deep breath. “I just need to get some proper rest. To clear my head. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I came here.”

“You haven’t slept well in a year? Not a single night?” Ben tries and fails to hide the shock in his voice. No wonder the man looks so utterly wrecked.

The man shakes his head. Sighs. “I was prescribed some tablets. They don’t seem to work. And that’s why Phasma thinks I have _deeper issues_.” He practically sneers _._

Ben says nothing for a moment. Then holds the man’s gaze and asks, gently: “And how do you think I could help you, Mr Hux? Because, much as you may respect Ms Phasma’s views, I don’t think you only came here because she told you to.”

The man – Hux – looks down at his hands again. “I – I thought you might help me to sleep better. Some sort of relaxation technique. Some evidence-based procedure. Something that _works._ ” He looks up, his eyes fierce again. “What I _do not want_ is to talk about my childhood and my deep-seated traumas and all that nonsense.”

Ben suppresses a smile. “You were looking for a form of short-term therapy, then.”

Hux nods in agreement. “Exactly. Just something that – something to deal with my insomnia in a short number of sessions. Something that _works,_ ” he repeats. He looks at Ben, his guard slightly lowered, almost pleadingly, out of exhaustion, out of sheer _despair._ “Can you do that?”

Ben crosses his arms over the desk, discomfited. He really wants to help this man. And he has a feeling that what he is about to say will not go down well. “Well. My specialisation is in psychoanalytic therapy, Mr Hux. Talk therapy.”

And indeed, Hux’s face crumbles with disappointment, which quickly morphs back again into that protective, hard façade. For some reason, Ben finds himself hurrying to add: “We could try a less – in-depth approach, though. Some short-term solution. At least for the time being.”

The very, very tentative hope in Hux’s eyes as he hears Ben’s offer is heartbreaking to see. He coughs, though, and brings his voice fully under control. “What do you suggest, Dr Solo?”

“You mentioned relaxation techniques. Have you ever tried hypnotherapy?”

Hux’s eyebrow shoots up. “It was suggested to me when I was trying to stop smoking. I spoke to a, well, practitioner.” It’s obvious that he wants to say _a quack._ He smiles, almost a smirk. “I ended up doing it on willpower.”

Ben suspects that there are many, many things that Hux has done based solely on sheer bloody self-will. “As I said, I favour a more long-term approach. Hypnotherapy is a quick fix, in my view. But you must be completely exhausted, and I would discourage stronger drugs. So perhaps we could give it a try, so you can at least get some rest – to clear you head, as you said.” He adds: “And then perhaps you might consider… exploring in more depth.”

Hux smiles, a polite, brittle smile. He’s sceptical, and wary, and clearly has no intention of going over his life history with Ben, or with anyone, for that matter, _ever_. But he’s also at the end of his tether, so he nods. “I’m willing to give it a try if you are.”

Ben nods, feeling that in some way he’s bought some time. He stands up. “Good. Then – could you sit on the couch, please?”

***

“It’s no good. I _knew_ it would be no good.” Hux practically bites the words off as he opens his eyes and swings his long legs round to sit up again on the couch.

Ben takes a deep, calming breath – Hux is so taut, so pent up, so coiled, like a clock mechanism that has been wound far too many times, that it has been impossible to guide him into anything resembling relaxation, much less any form of trance. And it’s contagious – Ben has found himself gripping the armrests on his sofa in his efforts to make Hux _loosen up._

“You are not cooperating, Mr Hux. You need to be willing to relinquish control for this to work. Just for a while. You need to trust me.”

Hux looks at him as if he had gone stark raving mad. “I _am_ willing! I just can’t bloody stop the workings of my mind only because you tell me to!” He jumps up from the couch and starts to pace the room, attacking his hair again.

“It’s not a matter of me telling you,” Ben tells him through gritted teeth. “You _do_ need to let go. You need to be willing. I can’t force you.”

At this, Hux turns towards him, crestfallen. “No. I suppose you can’t,” he muses. Sounding unexpectedly – _regretful_?

Ben frowns at the sudden change in Hux’s demeanour, but by then the red-headed man is doing his jacket up again, picking up his coat, and fishing his wallet from a pocket. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Dr Solo.” He takes out several banknotes – more than three or four times Ben’s usual rates, much less a first consultation – and thrusts them at Ben. “Thank you for your time.”

Ben stands up, incensed at being so _dismissed._ This is something Hux is clearly used to – imposing his will as he moves through life, either by paying people or by scaring or deriding them into submission. He’s so used to power he doesn’t even think about it when he flings it around anymore.

Ben is used to his patients trying to rile him up – it’s part of transference, he expects it and knows how to deal with it. But for some reason, this man – this arrogant, deluded, self-torturing man – has got under his skin.

He moves towards Hux, almost threateningly, drawing himself to his full height, entirely aware of how the two inches he has on the other man and his greater bulk make him _loom_ over him. “That won’t be necessary,” he says. “I’m not charging you.”

Hux _sneers_ at him as he holds the banknotes out. “I’m not a charity case, Dr Solo. I won’t accept your…”

And then Ben grips Hux’s outstretched wrist, hard. “I said _no,_ Mr Hux.”

Hux’s sharp intake of breath is the most satisfying thing Ben has heard in a _very_ long time. The man, unmistakably, _gasps._ Which Ben is certain is an extremely rare sound coming from him.

Hux looks up at Ben, wide-eyed. And his expression shocks Ben out of his rage: his lips parted, his eyes dazed, almost glassy.

Lost. Yearning.

Something in Ben – something that has never, ever, come up in his work, in his sessions, something that belongs to _the other side –_ screams: _This._

And then Hux blinks, and the moment is gone.

Ben lets go of Hux’s wrist. “This won’t be necessary,” he repeats, softly this time. And Hux just nods in silence, puts the banknotes back again in his wallet, and slides his coat over his shoulders, like some sort of protective cloak.

“Thank you for your time,” Hux says again. He opens his mouth as if to add something, then closes it. Looks down.

Ben sees him to the door, and lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding as he shuts it again after the man has left.

He moves to his desk, sits at his chair, and brings up the schedule on his laptop. Looks up his appointment time.

_Armitage Hux – 5 pm._

He clicks on the name.

 _Create record for this patient?_ the software asks him.

He hesitates for a second. Then clicks the button on the right.

_No._

_Deleted,_ the software informs him.

He sits back in his chair. This is only right, of course – the man is not his patient, he’s not going to be his patient, he _does not want_ to be his patient. Ben hasn’t been paid for the session. It’s as if it never happened.

And yet he is sufficiently good at what he does, sufficiently honest with himself, that he has to acknowledge, after a while, that it’s not just pity or concern for Hux that makes him feel that something has been lost, here.


	2. Chapter 2

How many coffees has he had today? He wonders for a second, then decides he really doesn’t want to know. As he puts his mug down on the desk, he notices that his hand is shaking slightly, due to the lack of sleep, or the caffeine overdose, or most likely both. He really should cut back, but he needs it to function – or at least, more or less function. Which is far from enough, these days.

He glances at the graphs and figures on his screen, and feels an anxious pang. He remembers what he told Dr Solo, that he was slipping, making stupid mistakes at work. Actually, it’s much worse than that. He’s made his way through the eat-or-be-eaten jungle of finance because of his killer instincts, his uncanny ability to spot the unlikely winners, the dark horses that upturn the market and make their shareholders millions. His ruthless demeanour and barefaced ambition – which have led his subordinates to nickname him the General, not that he’s supposed to know – also helped; but it was his almost savant-like predictive skills that made him the most sought-after financial analyst in the market. (Bobby Axelrod had once made him an offer over beers in a downtown dive: he had managed to turn down the offer and yet remain in Axe’s good graces by pointing out that two murderous gingers in the same building was just asking for trouble. Axe had laughed.)

And now his oracular powers are gone. Or at least, it looks and feels like it. All his recent deals have been average at best, and often flops. Phasma told him that everyone goes through rough patches, but he knows that it’s something more serious than that. Snoke has already had words with him: it’s only a matter of time until he’s summoned again. His stomach clenches just by thinking of it.

He switches to his email program, and things don’t improve at all. There, glaring at him from the screen, is his father’s name, followed by the tactful subject: WHY ARE YOU FUCKING UP AGAIN???

He sighs and minimizes the window. He crossed the Atlantic precisely to get away from Brendol Hux, Esq., and yet the old man still seems able to get at him across all those time zones. He hasn’t escaped paternal oppression, after all: his father’s bombshells just reach him a bit later. If anything, he just seems to have added an extra tyrannical father figure in Snoke.

_Brilliant planning as usual, Hux._

He rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s exhausted, so much that his vision is getting blurry. In the past, whenever he was worn out after pulling an all nighter, he would go home, take a shower and a nap, and return in the afternoon, refreshed and revitalised, ready to terrorise his minions with renewed energy. But he knows that it’s useless, now – if he goes home during the day, he’ll just lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, too tired to fall asleep. He only manages brief periods of restless snoozing, tossing and turning, plagued by nightmares he is unable to remember five minutes after he wakes up.

He remembers his time in Solo’s office, and, for a second, wishes that his attempt at relaxation had worked. And then, immediately, he scoffs at himself. Absurd. Ridiculous. Seeking _a therapist’s_ help, for chrissake. _Seeking help. From strangers. From a shrink. What kind of pussy are you_?

His knuckles turn white as he grips his mug. The voice in his head sounds exactly like his father’s.

_This can’t go on._

Perhaps he should go back to Solo. He grudgingly acknowledges that the man gained his respect. For once, here was someone who wasn’t intimidated by Hux’s aloofness. And who seemed to know what he was talking about, even if what he tried to do didn’t work (and who could blame him?) And if there is something Hux admires, it’s competence.

(He also remembers how Solo refused to take his money. His grip on his wrist. That deep, imperious voice, making his stomach clench: _I said_ no, _Mr Hux._ He blinks the memory away. He’s being utterly ridiculous. Again.)

But of course he can’t go back. If he does, he’ll have to talk about _himself_. And the very thought of it is unbearable.

He looks out of the windows of his corner office, unconsciously rubbing his wrist. From here, he can just about glimpse the tops of the trees in Central Park, dark and naked and wet in the misty autumn evening. There’s a haze hovering, shrouding the din of the city below him like oddly luminescent, floating gauze.

It’s late in a Friday evening, almost night, and the office is practically empty – Monday is a bank holiday, and most of the staff have left early (at least, early by finance industry standards). Even ever-efficient, hardworking Mitaka, his personal assistant, was out by six.

He sighs. He really doesn’t want to go home. And then he remembers.

He fishes around for it in his inside jacket pocket – it’s still there, yes. The card is small, glossy black, obviously of very high quality. Phasma gave it to him that night when they both got slightly tipsy after a work function and found out that they shared certain _proclivities_ – albeit on completely opposite sides of the fence, in every respect.

Actually, now he thinks of it, that was the first time she mentioned Solo, without actually naming him. She had told him that she had a girlfriend, Rey, who was also her submissive, and who apparently had a very troubled past, and they had managed to find a kink-friendly therapist who worked wonders on her. Or with her, rather.

It was only months later that Phasma mentioned Solo openly, this time to urge Hux to see him. _Because you need it badly, General._

He smirks as an automatic reaction, embarrassed by the very thought. Phasma probably thought that his _proclivities_ had something to do with his problems. The idea of actually discussing with Solo the sort of things he fantasises about, his disgusting desires, the _filth_ he really is, creeps, insidious, into his mind, and he harshly pushes it away, feeling how he goes red in the face just at the thought. _You are pathetic, Hux._

He won’t see Solo again. He won’t talk about this – or anything to do with himself, with the real, hidden, disgusting self that he conceals so carefully – with anyone. Ever. It’s safer that way.

He looks down at the card.

There is something he _can_ do, though.

***

One of the best things about Phasma, Hux thinks, is that she can be relied on to have good taste. Even when it comes to sex clubs.

The inspiration for the venue is clearly _Eyes Wide Shut –_ thankfully, the rich guy’s home party, _not_ the orgy scene. The venue is dark, as behoves a place for more-or-less clandestine sex, and yet discreetly lit by strips of cove lighting running along recesses in the walls. Strings of fairy lights cover an entire feature wall, bathing the surrounding areas in warm light, while casting deeper, inviting shadows where it fades into the dark corridors.

He’s sitting at the bar, where an unflappable-looking barman has just poured him an excellent Irish whiskey – 21-year-old Redbreast, he believes. He looks around, seeing nothing he likes other than the décor.

He’s clear about what he is looking for: he wants to get fucked. Hard. He doubts that will do anything to alleviate his insomnia – he’s tried – but at least it will be a temporary relief.

Ideally, he also wants to get thrashed, although in his experience that can often be harder to negotiate. Funnily enough, he’s more particular about the way in which he needs to be hurt than about how he gets fucked. But then – he thinks, gesturing for the barman to pour him another one – it’s also odd, given Hux Senior’s educational methods, that his son should precisely eroticise getting whipped to within an inch of his life. Or perhaps he eroticised it, to begin with, as some form of self-defence, a way of taking back control?

 _Perhaps I should have discussed that with Dr Solo._ And he is sufficiently loosened up by the alcohol that he is able to snicker to himself at the thought rather than be embarrassed.

Eventually, he gets up, still nursing his glass of whiskey, and wanders down one of the corridors that lead away off the bar zone and into the darker, more active areas. He makes his way past the writhing, rutting shapes, past the moans punctuated by the occasional sharp keening, past the multiple combinations of bodies, the mathematics of desire. He feels bodies brushing against his, hands, male and female, reaching out, tentatively, caressing in appreciation, inviting. He shakes his head politely at all these, and moves on.

The light here is purplish and dim, suggesting ultraviolet rays or something, he imagines. He walks down corridors lined with doors and smoky windows, where people in various stages of dress and undress gather to watch the figures on the other side of the glass. He peers at some of them as he passes – it looks like wrestling in the dark to him, mainly.

But then he reaches the end of a corridor, where a larger group of people is gathered, radiating a different sort of excitement. He hears the eager, almost reverent murmurs: “It’s Master Ren!”

He is tall enough that he doesn’t need to go into the mainly naked crowd to see what’s going on in the room behind the glass. A dark, small room, lit by what looks like candlelight. There’s a man in the middle, stark naked, hanging from the ceiling by the chains connected to the cuffs around his wrists.

For a moment, Hux wonders whether the man has been hung there and left to dangle as punishment for some “misdeed.” But then he realises that there is someone else with him in the room. Out of the deeper shadows at the back, there steps a taller, broader man, dressed in black from head to toe – a black cowled jumper, what look like black leggings, black combat boots. The upper part of his face is covered by a black and silver mask, striated with bright red fault lines, as if it had been broken and put together again, like kintsugi. His lips –

And then Hux’s heart misses a beat, because he suddenly realises that he _knows_ those lips. That he had been staring at those lips all the time while Dr Solo tried to draw him out of his parsimony, back in his office.

_Solo._

The more he looks, the more he’s certain that it’s him, that the man in there who is now caressing the naked man’s flank, the black leather of his gloves in stark contrast against the man’s pale skin, is Ben Solo.

The man on whose couch he lay back and closed his eyes and tried, to no avail, to let go.

Hux’s mouth has suddenly gone very, very dry. _Kink-friendly indeed_. 

Solo leans forward, close to the hanging man’s ear, and says something. The hanging man turns to look at him, his eyes wide, a mixture of fear and eagerness and terrifying arousal.

And then Solo raises his right arm, raises the crop he had been carrying all along, and brings it down on the hanging man’s backside.

And continues.

It’s a savage beating, by any standard. The blows just fall and fall, until the hanging man is _howling_ , lost in what must be a universe of pain. And yet, his penis remains painfully erect throughout, topped by an increasingly swelling drop of precome.

And then Solo drops the crop, seizes the man by the back – which is now crisscrossed by stripes as red as the lines on Solo’s mask –, grabs him harshly by his hair, and, again, says something in his ear.

The man comes. Immediately and wildly, thrashing in Solo’s arms where he holds him.

Eventually, Solo lets go of the man to flip a switch on the wall, and the chains that hold him are lowered. The man collapses into a heaving, sobbing heap at Solo’s feet.

And then Solo crouches next to the man, holding him again, brushing his hair out of his face. Kissing his head. The lights are dim and Solo is facing half away from the window now. But Hux can clearly lip-read what he is saying.

“Good boy. Good boy.”

Over and over and over.

Hux’s erection, which he has sustained for the last ten minutes or so, has reached, he suddenly realises, critical point. He’s so hard it hurts. Before he even thinks of processing any of this, he needs to slink away and find a toilet and _deal_ with it.

But he can’t move away from the window. He can’t take his eyes off Solo.

The people around him are starting to move away now, pairing off, humming with arousal, no doubt about to put it to good use. And still he stands in front of the dark glass, clutching his glass in both hands. Paralysed with lust.

And then Solo looks up. And sees him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, that's Bobby Axelrod from Billions. Thought it might be a fun crossover. And then there's Wendy Rhoades, of course...


	3. Chapter 3

Solo looks up, and _sees him._

Those dark, bottomless eyes lock onto his, piercing him, pinning him down where he stands. He can no more move than if he had been tied to the spot, chains binding him like they bound the naked man as Solo flogged him.

He’s never felt more exposed, more vulnerable in his life. Solo _is seeing him._

The glass of whiskey slides from his nerveless fingers, crashing noisily onto the floor in a burst of amber and shards.

He comes.

***

As if his mind had exploded, he opens his eyes after the white-hot burst, mind flattened and blank and out of joint, eyes blinking as if exposed to a nuclear glare. He is shaking.

And then he comes back to himself, somewhat, and looks down at the mess he’s made – the yellowish puddle at his feet, spattering his trousers, the radius of scattered splinters. The dark wet stain spreading across his crotch.

Something – the huge, looming dark wave he knows is always there, has always been there – crashes over his head. He’s drowning, he’s panicking, he’s losing his body, his self, he cannot, _cannot_ –

He runs away, blind.

***

Somehow, he finds his way to the toilets. Empty. Dashes into one of the stalls, slams the door shut behind him, turns the lock.

Sits on the toilet seat, red-faced and shivery, nauseous, hyperventilating. Head between knees. _Brace. Brace. Brace._

Losing all notion of time, all notion of anything outside this body, outside this too-tight skin, which feels like it is burning. There is only a droning buzz, like white noise. The crashing wave, rolling, pulling down. Underwater.

And then, the voice. The deep, _dark_ voice.

“Mr Hux? Mr Hux, are you all right?”

Huddles on the toilet seat, bringing his knees off the floor. A tight, numb ball.

_Not here. No one here._

“Mr Hux?”

The voice draws nearer. Finds its way. On the other side of the door. “Are you all right?”

Silence.

The voice is listening. Listening to the wheezing, the sobbing, the ragged breathing.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. You did nothing wrong. It’s okay.” A pause. “You did nothing wrong, Mr Hux. Open the door. It’s all right. Please.”

_Go away. Go. Away._

The voice pauses again. Then: “Armitage.”

Something stops. Caught off-guard.

And the voice again. Gentle but firm: “Armitage. Open the door.”

Without thinking, legs slide back to the floor, hand slides the lock open. The door is opened from outside.

And there is Ben Solo standing in Master Ren’s dark clothes, mask gone, his face tight and pale with concern. He takes a swift look at Hux, then schools his features into calmness. “Thank you, Armitage,” he says softly. “It’s okay. It’s okay now. Let’s go outside.”

Hux remains stock-still, standing in the stall. A wild, trapped look in his eyes. Shaking again. “Can’t… can’t…” Hand flapping helpless before his crotch. “Can’t.”

“Oh.” Solo looks down. Then quickly takes his jumper off. “Don’t worry. This will cover it.”

Hux passively allows Solo to bring his jumper over his head, pulling his hands through the arms, as if he were a small child being dressed – a feeling that is only reinforced by how he swims in the overlarge jumper, like a boy wearing his father’s clothes. Small and helpless, yet somehow, reassuringly, protected.

“There we go,” says Solo, giving the hem of the jumper, which comfortably covers the stain, a final tug. “There we go, Armitage.” He holds out his hand. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of it. It’s all right.”

Hux looks up at Solo. Then, still shaking, places his hand in Solo’s larger one.

***

Solo keeps talking in the cab – just meaningless, repetitive, reassuring noise, a flow of soothing syllables, his voice holding Hux together, draped over him like an arm, like a protective cloak.

They step out of the car in front of a familiar building – Hux has been here before, Tribeca, pre-war buildings. Solo’s office.

A lift. Keys. Darkness. Then a light turned on, walking down a corridor, doors, soft darkness again. A dim light.

Hands – Solo’s? – taking the jumper off, taking everything off. He likes it, likes the warmth, likes the feel of warm skin on his. Calming him. Soothing. _Everything’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay, Armitage. You’re doing so well._

Then he’s gently pushed down onto a soft surface, soft bedding, and the hands gently prise his mouth open, place something on his tongue. Cool glass against his lips, cool water. He swallows, meekly.

The hands turn the bedding down, help him to lie down, lie back. Cool sheets against his bare legs, a faint smell of lavender on the soft, welcoming pillow. He is tucked in, tightly, as he hadn’t been tucked in since he was a sick little boy in boarding school, alone in the shuttered quiet of the infirmary. The Matron’s cool hand on his feverish forehead. The clean, warm smell of lavender.

***

Ben removes his hand from Hux’s forehead – no fever. He stands up, careful not to disturb him, watching as the other man’s stricken face relaxes into sleep.

***

He wakes up to a glimmering of light coming from the crack under the door, and the smell of coffee brewing. Fumbles his way out of the – extremely comfortable – bed, then opens the door, walks down a corridor towards the light. And finds himself in a large, high-ceilinged area, into which the early morning light pours through huge windows.

And there is Ben Solo. Standing at the kitchen island, busying himself with what appears to be – a waffle maker?

“I hate to be a cliché, but where am I?”

“My apartment.” Ben finishes pouring a mix onto the waffle iron and shuts the lid down. “And good morning to you too. Breakfast will be ready in a couple of minutes. Would you like something to wear over that?”

Suddenly self-conscious, Hux looks down at himself. He’s just wearing his cotton briefs and socks. “Please.”

Ben smiles and leans forward to pick up a folded sweater which he apparently had been keeping ready for this on the countertop. “There you go.”

It’s an overlarge black Sorbonne University sweatshirt. As Hux pulls it down, it comes back to him: the _other_ jumper. The toilet. The stain. The spillage. The panic.

Ben watches in concern as anguish and shame flood all too clearly over Hux’s face. “Hey,” he says gently. “Sit down. Have some coffee.”

Hux climbs onto the stool and gratefully gulps down the steaming, dark liquid before Solo even has the chance to offer him milk or sugar.

“Wow.” Ben takes the empty mug as Hux pushes it back to him, clearly gesturing for _more._ He pours some more, hands it back. Something pings behind him. “Waffles.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees how Hux shifts uncomfortably in his seat as embarrassment and shame threaten to overtake again. And indeed, he starts to make noises about leaving under the pretext of politeness.

“I really should get going, Dr Solo. I’m – I’m sorry about what happened. I won’t be bothering you again.”

Hux makes as if to slide of the stool, but Ben leans over the countertop and holds his shoulder down. The contact suddenly electric.

“No,” he says. “Stay.” Then adds, quietly: “Please.”

He slides the waffles onto a dish before Hux has time to think, places the plates and cutlery in front of them, then moves out to the other side of the countertop, and sits next to Hux. Who eyes him warily for a moment – but then his stomach growls in hunger, and he decides to spear a waffle onto his plate.

They munch in fairly companionable silence for a while. Then Hux places his empty plate on the countertop says – because he feels he has to say _something_ : “So. About last night.”

Ben bites off another piece of waffle. “Yes?”

“I’m so sorry.”

Ben sets his plate aside. Looks at Hux with serious eyes. “As I told you, you did nothing wrong. There’s nothing to apologise for. But – what do you think happened?”

Hux looks down at the clenched fists in his lap. “I – I’m not sure. I was shocked to find you there, obviously. But – my reaction. I don’t…” His voice drifts off.

“Has it ever happened before?”

Hux’s fingers start combing through his hair, his nervous tell. “Not like this. I’ve had – minor attacks. Nerves, anxiety, I suppose. But not like this.” He seems to realise what he’s doing with his hand and knots them in his lap again. “I never – lost it so completely,” he ends, in a voice so small Ben can hardly hear him.

Ben looks aside, then straight again at Hux. Trying to be as delicate as possible. “You became aroused.”

Hux swallows visibly. “I – yes. I. I saw you. And.” Fingers through hair, tugging. Back to the knot. Tying, untying. “I. I came. Didn’t I?”

Ben nods.

“I came. I wasn’t expecting it. I came, and…”

“And?”

“The wave. Shame. Crashing over me.” Hux stops, and suddenly he looks again like the little boy Ben tucked away in bed last night. “I wet myself. Or... it felt like I did.”

Ben nods and says nothing. Listening.

“I… I used to wet myself. In bed. When I was young. It was – A Problem.” He hadn’t remembered it in years, and now it all comes back to him in a sudden surge. The helplessness. The shame. The tears, muffled crying against his pillow. The other boys, pulling back his sheets and blankets, jeering and mocking. And his father.

His father.

“You had enuresis as a child?” asks Ben. Hux nods. “Until what age?”

“Twelve? Thirteen? They – I was taken to be examined by many doctors. They could never find anything wrong with my bladder.”

“It’s not uncommon,” says Ben, blandly. And thinks, but doesn’t say: _And it’s a common sign of abuse._

And then Hux says, tentatively: “I heard people call you – Master Ren?” He glances sideways at Ben, wary about his reaction.

Ben smiles dryly. “Ah. Yes. That’s my _nom de guerre._ For this sort of thing. Was it your first time in the club?”

“In this club, yes. Phasma told me about it. I have been in – similar places, before, though. In Europe.”

Ben nods. It should have been obvious when he saw Hux’s reaction to his command when he gripped his wrist. _Submissive._ Luckily, he had realised in time last night, in the toilets.

He looks at Hux where he is sitting across from him, a bundle of nerves barely holding himself together, fighting so hard to keep control, not to be torn by the demons within him. He wants to reach forward like he did last night, and hold him, and tell him that everything’s going to be okay. He wants to…

“You need to find help, Armitage,” says Ben, gently. “You are not well. And you know it.”

As he expected, Hux tenses at this, and again starts to move as if to leave. And again Ben places his hand on his knee, holding him. “Stay.”

Hux goes very still. Looks down at Ben’s huge hand on his knee. “I am not your patient.”

Ben goes equally still. “No,” he says at last. “You are not.”

“Do – do you want me to stay?” Quietly.

“Yes. I do.”

“Is that an order?” His voice tries to be mocking, so as to have plausible deniability if Ben doesn’t respond. So as not to lose face. But the pale green eyes look up at him as if saying: _please._

And then Ben understands. He needs to get this right. He really, _really_ needs to get this right.

He leans forward, and with his other hand grips Hux’s wrist, tight. His voice drops to its darker pitch.

“Yes.”


	4. Chapter 4

He grips Hux’s wrist, tight. And again, that _gasp._ A mixture of surprise, apprehension, and relief.

“Is there anywhere you need to be during the next three days?” asks Ben.

Hux shakes his head mutely.

“Good,” says Ben in a low yet clear voice. “I’d like to spend them with you, if you want to. But before we start, I want you to understand this. You can leave any time you like. Or you can just tell me you want to stop, and we’ll just sit and talk or do whatever you like. I will never – _ever –_ make you do anything you truly don’t want to do. Do you understand?”

Hux nods. Again, no words.

“Very well then. Go and take a shower. I have washed your clothes, but I want you to wear something more comfortable. I’ll leave something for you on your bed.” He lets go of Hux’s wrist. “The bathroom’s the first door on the right.”

***

He picks up some clothes from his own bedroom – the smallest he can find – and takes them to the guest room. Lost in thought as he makes the bed, the noise of the shower in the background.

He’s playing this completely by ear. And he can’t make any serious mistakes – he senses that Hux is so skittish – so fragile – that he’ll bolt if he goes about it the wrong way. He seems to have taken Ben’s assurances well, though, which is a good sign.

So. From what he’s gathered so far: some form of abuse in the past, most likely connected to the father or a paternal figure. Resulting in an extremely tormenting superego – that hideous avalanche of shame. No doubt connected to his sexuality in a traumatic way. Which must be why his sudden, unexpected arousal last night – and seeing what he saw – triggered such an extreme and incapacitating panic reaction.

It’s clear that Hux has a fairly good grasp of his sexuality, though – hence the sex clubs. Which makes it all the more puzzling that a self-aware masochistic submissive should find it so difficult to give up control – and that he almost went into dissociation when experiencing a particularly intense form of arousal.

 _Most likely he’s only been with idiots who didn’t know how to do it properly,_ he thinks, smirking at his own arrogance. Although he knows it’s probably true: most so-called doms have no idea whatsoever what they are doing.

But that leaves the other question open. The trauma, and its connection to Hux’s sexuality.

_There’s some digging to be done, yes._

He can’t deny that he finds the prospect intriguing. Thrilling, even. Or rather, it’s Hux he is intrigued by. And he cannot ignore the fact that, on some level, he must have refused to take his money, after that botched session, precisely because he didn’t want Hux as his patient. Because, ethically, that would have made this – whatever _this_ is going to be – impossible.

On some level, he’s been attracted to Hux from the start, in a way he has never experienced before. Which is… quite vertigo-inducing. Whatever Hux may have felt in the office, what Ben is doing is certainly not an act of charity. It’s not only Hux who is walking a knife’s edge here.

He smooths down the coverlet until he is satisfied with how it looks. He hears the shower being turned off behind the closed door on the corridor, and places the small pile of clothes on the bed. Then leaves. He wants to give Hux his space. At least to begin with.

***

He is sitting on the sofa when Hux walks back into the room, wearing a pair of leggings, a t-shirt, and a dark blue cable sweater – everything is too big for him, but at least the jumper looks deliberately oversize. It actually looks better on him, Ben thinks, considering the other man’s slenderness, the way in which the deep blue offsets his pallor and red hair.

“Come here.”

Hux complies, although not remotely in a subservient way. He looks prickly again, cautious, his previous subdued demeanour gone. Which, Ben finds, is a relief. He was worried that his passivity could be the aftermath of what happened last night.

Hux stands before Ben. Who picks up a cushion from the sofa, opens his legs, and drops it between them. “Here.”

Hux raises a quick eyebrow. But, again, complies in a curiously dignified way, as if he were a mandatary or statesman accepting the requirements of foreign protocol.

“Good boy.” Ben stretches out his hand and gently runs it through Hux’s hair, something between petting and caressing – a deliberate reversal of the way in which Hux often mistreats it. Hux blinks in surprise, and then swallows, suppressing a shiver, as Ben’s hands move down, skimming his torso, his waist, and under the sweater to stroke his flanks.

“Close your eyes.”

“What…?”

“Shh. Close your eyes, Armitage. Do as I say.” It’s a command. Gentle, but still a command.

Hux swallows again, and obeys, discomfited. He clearly has difficulties allowing himself to lose track of what’s going on. Ben remembers that failed attempt at relaxation in his office – his continual anxious fidgeting, the permanent frown of resistance.

“Okay,” says Ben. "So why were you in the club last night?”

Hux’s eyelids flutter as he wills them to remain shut: he obviously would prefer to see Ben’s reactions to his words. He takes a deep breath, and steadies himself. “I felt like getting fucked.” A pause. “And beaten.”

Ben hums, the little phatic noise he uses to show that he’s listening, he’s interested, he’s not judging. “You enjoy pain?”

“I… I wouldn’t put it as ‘enjoy’. It’s something I – seem to need.”

“You need to feel pain to get off?”

“No. No. I can come perfectly well without pain. It’s just – “ Hux’s hands start to move up, his automatic reflex to stress, but Ben gently grabs him by the wrists and brings them back to Hux’s sides again. Hux, pushed yet further out of his comfort zone, breathes deep again. “I seem to need it. Now and then. As a release, a relief. When things get – too much.”

“I see. Is that the only way in which you let out pressure, sexually? Pain?”

“No, I…” And here Hux looks down, or would look down if his eyes were open, and he visibly flushes. “Sometimes there is also. Well. Humiliation.”

“You seek out sexual situations in which you are humiliated?”

Hard swallow. “Yes.”

Ben hums and strokes Hux’s face. Who clearly resists the relief, the urge to nuzzle into Ben’s hand. “Tell me about what you saw me do last night.”

Hux’s expression becomes confused. “You want me to tell you…?”

“Describe it.”

Hux opens his mouth, closes it. Suspecting a trick question. Trying to figure out what the right answer is.

“Tell me what it looked like. To you,” clarifies Ben.

“You… you were punishing that man.”

Ben raises an eyebrow. “Punishing him? What for?”

“I, I – I don’t know, I don’t know who that man is, I’m sorry, I have no idea what you…” Hurriedly, justifying himself, what he perceives as his mistake, his failure to give the right answer.

Ben runs his hand along Hux’s flank, soothing. “Shh. Just tell me what it made you think of.”

Hux’s hands ball into fists as he resists pulling at his hair. “I… imagined he was your, your submissive. Your slave. Something like that. And he had done something wrong. Seriously wrong. And that was why you had taken him there, and you were beating him in front of all those people. As punishment.” His voice drops. “I thought he deserved it.”

Ben wets his lips, which have gone unexpectedly dry. “You saw him come, though. How is that punishment?”

This throws Hux off. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t know what to say. Eventually, tentatively: “Because punishment is not something you enjoy. It’s something you need. And – sex is like that.” A pause. “It’s not really about pleasure. For me. Pleasure doesn’t really matter that much to me.”

Ben frowns, slightly puzzled. _“_ So what is sex about, then? For you?”

A beat. “Control.”

_Ah._

Taking care to keep his feet pressed against Hux’s calves – so that he can continue to feel his physical proximity – Ben takes his hands off his body and leans back against the back of the sofa. “Open your eyes. Take the sweater off.”

Hux’s eyes fly open and immediately move up to Ben’s face, scrutinising his expression, which Ben is careful to keep as neutral as possible. Hux’s cock, Ben notices as the sweater comes off, is not erect, but definitely stirring. As is his.

“Touch yourself,” orders Ben. “Through your clothes,” he adds, as Hux’s fingers move to pull down the waist of his leggings. "Make yourself hard. But you may only come when I give you permission. Do you understand?”

A stunned nod.

Ben leans forward, a predatory look suddenly on his face. “You came too, didn’t you? You came, untouched. Just because I _looked_ at you.” And _fuck_ if thinking of that doesn’t make _his_ cock rock hard. “If I can make you come just by looking at you, without even intending to –“ He brings his face very close to Hux’s, who is staring at him wide-eyed. “- Just imagine what degree of control I can have over you if I put my mind to it.”

A moan escapes Hux’s lips.

“Stop touching yourself,” snaps Ben, and as Hux drops his hands, he circles his neck with his hand. Ben can practically feel Hux’s cock _oozing._

“That’s what you need, isn’t it.” Ben’s voice a dark, burning whisper in Hux’s ear. “Someone to take charge. To take over. Someone who decides for you.”

Hux is shivering and groaning, seemingly without realising it. Ben takes a quick look at him, scanning, but it’s not a traumatic reaction. It’s extreme arousal.

“It’s all right, Armitage,” he says. “I’m in charge now _._ ”

With his other hand, he pulls down the leggings, and Hux’s cock springs out, furiously hard and red. Ben suspects that, again, he wouldn’t even have to touch it. But he lubes his hand in the abundant precome that is coating it, and starts stroking. “Look at me.”

Hux’s pale green eyes are glassy as he looks up at Ben, lips parted, breath short. He looks – transfixed. Lost. As if Ben’s gaze, Ben’s words, were all that tethered him to the world right now.

Ben wants to devour him.

“Come,” he whispers. And his chest muffles Hux's cry as he shatters in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

Eventually, Hux lifts his head from Ben’s chest and looks up at him, still in a daze. Then looks down again. “Oh,” he gasps. As if he realised that he had committed an unforgivably rude oversight.

Ben moves to stop him, but Hux has already slid down his torso, down between his knees, he has undone his fly and is pulling Ben’s cock out, and he can feel Hux’s breath on it, up close and warm, his warm hands on his thighs, his lips as they press onto the sensitive skin…

And then lips and fingers go soft, and the hot breath slides away as Hux slumps sideways and down. Sleep crashing over him again like a tonne of bricks.

Despite his frustrated hard-on, Ben almost laughs out loud. The poor man was already exhausted, and the proverbial post-orgasmic bliss has felled him, again. He leans down and hoists Hux up by his bottom, carrying him against his torso as one does a small child.

“Nnnno…,” protests Hux, drowsily. “Nnno, Dr Solo, please, let me…”

“Shh,” Ben hushes him, as he brings him into the guest room and puts him to bed. “Sleep some more. You need it.”

“Mmnno, ’m not tired, please, don’t go, I want to…” But his words slur off into nothing as his head hits the pillow and he collapses into unconsciousness.

Ben stands over him for a moment, watching as Hux’s face relaxes into tranquillity, tension leaking out of his body. He smiles, a small, pleased smile. Then goes into the bathroom to take care of himself in the shower.

***

“It’s one,” says Hux, glaring indignantly at Ben. Hux, who, barring illness, hasn’t staid in bed later than eight since he was in nappies. “ _One in the afternoon_. You let me sleep until _one_.”

Ben looks up from his book. “You needed to catch up on your sleep. Still do, as a matter of fact.”

Hux frowns. “So what is this, the Solo rest cure? You keep me here and fuck me into oblivion until I get the rest I need? Waking me up just to fuck me and then send me back to sleep?”

Both men blink. Because, as Hux says it, it sounds much… _hotter_ than he had intended.

Ben shuts his book, places it on the coffee table, and stands up. “Actually, I was feeling like a walk. There’s a great place for brunch around the corner. You coming?”

***

The brunch _is_ remarkably good, Hux has to concede, tucking into a plate of Australian scrambled eggs (which, to his chagrin, have nothing to do with kangaroos, but apparently with the way in which they are folded).

“How can you afford it here?” he asks, pointing out at the neighbourhood with his fork. “I mean, it’s a cliché that therapy pays well, but…”

“But it’s not investment banking?” Ben smiles, wryly. “Family money. My maternal grandfather left me a pretty large bequest. Much to my surviving family’s annoyance.”

“Annoyance?”

“I come from a political family. My mother wanted me to follow on her steps and become the youngest senator for our state. Mom and her brilliant ideas.” Ben raises his brows comically. “It would have been an utter catastrophe – back then, I would have just wrecked the Capitol furniture whenever I got angry. And I got angry _a lot_.”

Hux stares at him, almost open-mouthed in astonishment.

“What, did you think I was always this unspeakably cool and self-collected?” laughs Ren. “God, no. I used to be a human disaster zone. It took me many years of hard work to get to a point in which I no longer woke up in the morning wanting to break things.”

A pause. Then Hux says, hesitantly: “But you still – _hurt_ people.”

Ben smiles. “Only if they want me to. If we _both_ want it. And I control the urge, not the other way around.”

“Oh.” Hux looks down, not knowing what to say. When he looks up again, his eyes fix on something outside the café window, and he almost chokes on his eggs.

“What…?” Ben turns around, following Hux’s gaze.

There, on the pavement on the other side of the street, is Phasma, unmissable with her towering height and short platinum hair. Next to her, walking happily hand in hand with her, is a coltish, slender girl.

And on her other side, holding Phasma’s other hand, is Mitaka.

Hux holds his breath until the threesome turn a corner into a perpendicular street. Then covers his mouth, shocked.

“What?” asks Ben, baffled. “What is it? Are you worried that Phasma will see you with me?”

“No, it’s…” He gestures towards the windows. “That was Mitaka with them. _My_ Mitaka. My PA.”

“Dopheld. Yes, he’s Phasma’s submissive too. Or slave, I’m not sure what they are calling it these days – I know they wanted there to be a distinction between what Rey is and what he is…” He stops, realising that Hux is looking queasy as he speaks. “Armitage, what’s the matter?”

“You knew that Phasma is… _domming_ my PA?”

“Erm, I’ve been friends with Phasma for a while, yes.”

“How long have they…?”

Ben shrugs. “Two, three years?”

“So all the time I’ve been here in the US, Mitaka has been…?”

“Phasma’s sub, yes.”

Hux looks dizzy at the revelation. “ _Christ_.” He looks up at Ben. “How did you…? I thought you were Rey’s therapist…?”

“I was. I treated Rey for several years. Obviously, I have never interacted with her _that_ way.”

“As you have… _interacted_ with me?”

“No. She was my patient.” He smiles lopsidedly. “And neither of us would have been interested, in any case.”

Hux is quiet for a moment. “So how do you know Mitaka? You called him ‘Dopheld.’”

“Ah.” Ben takes a swig of coffee. “Yes. Phasma asked me to talk with him when they started their relationship. Not in therapy, you understand. In my capacity as…”

“Master Ren.”

“Yeah, that,” Ben smiles into his mug.

“You had… that kind of sessions with him? The sort I saw in the club?”

“Not like that. Dopheld really, really wanted to be a good sub for Phasma – he _adores_ her, he worships the ground she treads on – and was incredibly self-conscious and nervous about the whole thing. Phasma asked me to help… put him more at ease. She was always there in the room with us, all the time.”

“Put him at ease?”

“I helped him relax.”

“Like you tried to make me relax that first time?”

“Something like that, yes.” Ben eyes Hux carefully over the rim of his mug.

“Oh.” Hux fiddles with his fork. “Did it work?”

“Oh yes.”

Hux bites his lower lip, clearly wanting to ask more, but reluctant to do so. Still, Ben can see how the images are flitting through his mind, what he thinks, or fantasises, that Ben did with – _to_ – Mitaka.

It will come out, sooner or later. The seed is sown.

*** 

They are walking up the steps back to Ben’s apartment when something buzzes in the pocket of Hux’s jacket. His phone, which he had completely forgotten about until now.

He looks at the screen. And immediately stiffens.

“What is it?” asks Ben.

“Nothing,” mutters Hux. And thrusts the phone back into his pocket.

***

“I need to take a quick look at my email, if you don’t mind,” says Ben as they walk into the apartment. “Perhaps we could watch a film. Why don’t you pick something on Netflix? The remote control is over there…”

As Ben moves further into the room, he realises that Hux isn’t answering. He turns around, to find him standing stock-still next to the door. He hasn’t taken his jacket off.

“I think I’d better be leaving,” he says, stiffly. “I’ve already taken up far too much of your time.”

“What?” Ben quickly steps up to him. “Armitage, what’s the matter? What’s happened?”

Hux looks at the floor, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t think there’s any point in… prolonging this anymore, Dr Solo.” His voice drops. “This is a ridiculous situation.”

“It’s _Ben,_ Armitage.” He takes Hux’s chin, gently but firmly, and tilts his face up, forcing him to look him in the eye. “Armitage. Talk to me. What happened?”

“I…” His hands tighten into balls of frustration, anger, impotence. He’s practically _flailing,_ unable to reach his words.

_What the hell just happened?_

“Armitage…” He slides one hand up Hux’s arm – and suddenly Hux raises it sharply, knocking Ben’s hand away, as if defending himself from an attack.

“ _Fuck off, Solo._ Enough with your charity, for fuck’s sake,” he growls.

“Armitage.” Ben’s voice turning dark with authority.

“What?” Hux spits out. “Do you think you can just call my name and bring me to _heel,_ like a dog? Do you think I’m your _bitch?_ Wouldn’t that be Mitaka?”

“Armitage, that’s _enough_.” Ben grabs Hux by both arms, but still the smaller man twists and struggles against him. He turns him roughly around, encircling Hux’s chest with his arm to restrain him, then leans his head down next to Hux’s ear. “You can leave right now if you want to. Is that what you want?”

He can feel Hux’s gulp, his pulse throbbing feverishly on his neck, the blind _violence_ radiating from him.

“ _Fuck you,”_ he mutters under his breath. And struggles again desperately against Ben’s solidity, his face contorted with fury and fear and sheer helplessness.

_Ah._

Realising what Hux needs now – what he’s begging for – Ben spins him around so that they are eye to eye.

And slaps him in the face. Hard.

Then swivels him around again, tears off his jacket, and throws him headlong over the sofa armrest.

“ _Of course you are my fucking bitch_ , Armitage,” hisses Ben as he pulls Hux’s belt out of its loops and yanks down his trousers and underwear. “Did you even doubt it?”


	6. Chapter 6

Moving quickly, Ben loops Hux’s belt around his throat, then pulls it through the buckle into a noose. Tightens it.

“Is this what you need, Armitage? Being held on a leash like the dog you are? _Hmm_?”

With his other hand, he removes his own belt. Then pulls on the makeshift leash as he brings the belt down on Hux’s exposed buttocks. Hux yelps, more in surprise than in pain. Ben’s first strike hasn’t been too hard – the first one never is, before he gets into the swing of it.

And then he gets into the swing of it.

He moves gradually, building up, relishing the dramatic redness that blooms on Hux’s pale, pale skin. But even more than that, he thrills to the sounds Hux makes as the blows rain on him: he hadn’t been remotely articulate to begin with, but his cries become more and more animalistic as his nails dig into the cushion, his spine curves up – he’s fantastically flexible, Ben notices –, in agony or ecstasy or both. When Ben yanks on his leash with particular viciousness, Hux’s keening no longer sounds human at all.

He lays down his belt on the armrest, panting with the exertion. Slowly caresses Hux’s trembling flesh, so hot now with the flush of blood that Ben’s hand can feel the warmth just hovering above the skin.

And then Hux turns to look at him over his shoulder, his face a wreck _:_ bright red, wet with tears, covered in drool and snot. But it’s Hux’s expression that shocks Ben. He’s _begging_. Desperately.

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers in a harsh, rasping, unrecognisable voice.

For a second, Ben thinks that he’s begging for release. Then he realises he’s begging for _more._

“Haven’t you had enough?” growls Ben. He scrutinises Hux’s face, trying to understand what he needs. He suspects it’s nothing quite as simple as mere physical punishment.

He grabs Hux by the hips and turns him around, so that Hux’s face – and his painfully hard cock – are exposed. Then wraps the belt around Hux’s throat tighter around his fist, coming closer to his face, and making his eyes go wide as his airflow is cut off.

“You behave like a rabid cur in your everyday life. You make people fear you and keep their distance. But this is the truth of it, isn’t it. You need to be kept on a leash. To be domesticated. Trained. _Tamed._ ” He loosens the belt for a second, and Hux gasps a desperate lungful of air in. “You need a Master.”

He tightens the black leather against Hux’s throat again, hard.

The arc of Hux’s back is beautiful, so beautiful, as he spasms and explodes, limbs flailing blindly, helpless, his mouth a wordless, airless O.

***

Later, while Hux is in the toilet, he goes back to the living room to tidy up a bit.

Hux’s phone slides out of the pocket as he picks his jacket up. It’s locked – of course – but as Ben leans down to retrieve it, the notification for an incoming message pops up.

Ben only glimpses it for a second before the message disappears into the locked background of the phone, but it’s enough.

Snoke.

***

“No. This way.”

Ben is more or less holding the limping Hux up, and, as he moves towards the guest room, Ben swerves and leads him the other way. Into his bedroom.

Hux blinks as they enter the room he has not seen, which is austerely masculine, all warm dark wood and brown and creamy linens. The headboard of the huge bed is a solid, polished block of wood which also serves as a nightstand, along which runs a long line of books, which are clearly opened often. Above it hangs a framed print of a Rothko square painting, rust and blood-red.

“Lie down.” Ben more or less pushes Hux down on top of the duvet cover, taking off his shoes and shirt and pulling a soft chocolate-brown knit throw over him.

“No, don’t…” Hux protests weakly, holding out a hand.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Softly. And swiftly takes off his own shoes and clothes, and slides onto the bed in his undershirt and briefs, spooning up against Hux, holding him, under the coverlet. He can sense Hux’s relief as he relaxes into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” says Hux. “I don’t know… I don’t know why I’m like this.”

Ben places his chin on his shoulder, hums against it. “Are you feeling better now?”

Hux nods silently. Ben gently runs his fingers along the long curve of Hux’s body, ribs and hips and thigh. Hux shudders beneath his hand, the way he has seen a horse’s flank ripple lightly beneath its skin.

“What were you trying to purge?” he asks quietly.

Hux turns to look at him over his shoulder, as he had turned when he was beating him. Only this time his eyes are not pleading, but wary. Ben keeps running his warm hand over his skin, soothing, calming. And they soften. He turns again away from Ben.

“Me. I suppose.”

Ben brings his lips down to kiss Hux’s shoulder blade. “I’d rather you didn’t. I sort of like you.”

“I don’t. I can’t stand myself.”

Gently. “I know.”

“Sometimes I just feel this urge to just… tear pieces of myself away. Tear away at my flesh. Until nothing is left. Because I just can’t bear to be _me_.” A pause. “That’s when – I do this.”

Ben isn’t surprised. Hux’s self-loathing, when it spikes, is so strong that it feels as if he can almost smell it. He is silent for a moment. Then says: “I’m happy to take you to pieces, if that’s what you need. As long as you let me put you back together afterwards.”

Hux turns again to look at him in surprise. Then his face drops, suddenly vulnerable. “I’m so tired, Ben,” he almost whispers.

Ben leans closer into him, holding him closer, tighter. “Shh. It’s all right. I’m here. I’ve got your back.” He runs his left hand through the soft tawny soft hair, smoothing it down, and Hux closes his eyes, relaxing into the touch.

“Is this what you did to Mitaka?” he mumbles.

“Sort of.”

“It’s nice.”

Ben hums again against him, feeling the low thrum go through Hux’s slender body. Hux’s breath and heartbeats, he notices, are slowing down, adjusting to his own, steadier beat. _Good._

“What were you dreaming about last night?” he asks. He had heard Hux cry out in his sleep.

Hux stirs at the question, but doesn’t turn around this time. “School.”

“Tell me.”

Hux takes a deep, shuddering breath. “The day my father took me out of boarding school and drove me to the academy.”

“What happened?”

For a long while, Hux says nothing. Ben keep stroking gently, keeping the warm contact of skin on skin. Forcing nothing. He can feel Hux swallow before he speaks.

“When I was thirteen, I was kicked out of school after I wet my bed one time too many. My father decided that sending me to his old military academy would solve the problem once and for all. Make me a man. He came to pick me up in his car, drove me there.”

“Your mother agreed with this?”

“My father was married to another woman when he got my mother pregnant. When he found out that his wife couldn’t have children, he reported my mother to Social Services – she drank and had mental problems. He got full custody.” No expression whatsoever in his voice. “She died a few years later.”

 _Oh._ Ben kisses Hux’s shoulder again. “I’m so sorry, Armitage.”

He thinks that Hux has stopped at this. But unexpectedly, he continues, his back always to Ben. “As we drove to the academy, my father kept making me drink from two large bottles of water in the car. He threatened to kick me out and leave me stranded if I didn’t. By the time we were halfway there, I was bursting, but he wouldn’t stop the car so I could take a pee. The headmaster was waiting for us – he was an old pal of my father’s. We went into his office. There were five or six older boys there, last-year students.”

Ben realises he is holding his breath.

“The headmaster started talking about my bed-wetting,” goes on Hux. “What a disgrace I was to my family name. How the academy would make a man of me.” He pauses. “They made me stand there, in front of them. Until I couldn’t hold it any longer.”

_Oh, Armitage._

But Hux’s voice is completely flat and toneless as he goes on. “I was made to run the gauntlet – had to walk between the two rows of boys as they beat me and told me how disgusting I was. Then the headmaster left the room. I already knew I preferred boys, and my father must have known. He said that I might as well get both things out of my system once and for all. So two of the boys fucked me. In my mouth and in my arse. I bled. My father sat and watched.”

Ben holds very, very still in horrified silence.

“I never wet my bed again.”

Ben has heard awful stories in his line of work – and his own history is not exactly a piece of pie, either –, and he thought that he had mastered his violent impulses. But at that moment he really, really hopes that Hux Sr is dead and rotting. Because otherwise he’s truly afraid that he will catch a plane to England and kill him himself with his bare hands. And enjoy it.

He silently tries to envelop Hux in his warmth, to shelter him. But he has gone stony again in his arms.

“The awful thing is –“ He heaves, and Ben realises it’s a shuddering sob. “I liked it.”

“You became aroused?”

“Not then. But later. When I thought about it. I would touch myself, thinking about it. I – “ He sobs again. “It felt – it felt _right._ That I had deserved it. I was disgusting. I deserved it. I still do.”

And Ben holds him as he breaks down.


	7. Chapter 7

“Look,” says Hux, later, when he has calmed down and washed his face and they are both dressed again, having coffee at the kitchen counter. “I _know_ what happened was child abuse. I _know_ my father is a monster.”

 _Is,_ notes Ben, grimly.

“And I know, intellectually, that it wasn’t my fault.” Hux puts down his mug. He has freshened up and combed his hair, and is dressed in his own, more formal clothes now, in an attempt to regain some feeling of control over himself. “And I think I manage quite well. I’m doing well for myself. I am pretty successful at what I do.”

“You are,” concedes Ben. “And not intellectually?”

Hux snorts. “When you’re treated like a piece of shit throughout your childhood, it’s hard to really feel that no, actually, you aren’t a piece of shit. I know I compensate – or overcompensate. As you said, I’m arrogant and abrasive and keep people at bay. And, again, I’m perfectly aware that that’s because of my insecurity.” He sighs. “Look, Ben. I’m not stupid. I’ve thought about these things. Often. I think I have processed them relatively well.”

“So why are you losing your grip at work?” asks Ben. “What is going on with Snoke, Armitage?” Hux blanches. “I saw his call when I was picking up your phone earlier. He sent you a message before that, didn’t he?”

Hux stiffens, and says nothing.

“Armitage, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with sexual pain or submission...”

“ _I know that,_ ” mutters Hux between gritted teeth.

“… and it doesn’t matter where that comes from, where it originated, as long as it’s something that serves you. But it seems clear that it’s not enough as it is. And you are not in control.”

“I _am_ in control.”

“That’s why you had a panic attack after coming? And you suddenly tried to sabotage us when Snoke called you? Because you’re in control?”

Hux falls silent. Looks at his hands. “Snoke brought me over from England because he wants me to personally manage his private investment fund, Starkiller. Yeah, he has an ear for names, I know.” He looks up. “He’s a friend of my father’s. That how I made the connection.”

Ben breathes in sharply. “ _Armitage…_ ”

“I know, I know. But, Ben, _this would make my career_. If I handled Starkiller successfully, I would be set for life – I would be able to work anywhere, choose any job – if I even wanted to have a job. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“ _Snoke is a fucking psychopath, Armitage_.”

“You think I don’t know that??” Harshly. “Ben, I have got through lots of seriously bad shit in my life – you heard some of it today. And what made me get through it alive is that I constantly reminded myself that it wouldn’t be for nothing – that if I _used what I had,_ if I became good enough and strong enough, I would make it. That’s why I haven’t cut off contact with my father yet – the man fucked up my life and watched me get buggered, I might as well get something I want out of the bastard. And his connections.” His face is red with fury and vehemence now.

Ben rubs his face with his hand in frustration. “So you’re keeping your ties with your father and working for his equally monstrous crony because you want to make something out of it? Do you realise how fucked up that is?”

“It’s perfectly rational,” replies Hux, coolly.

“It may be rational, but your body says otherwise, and it’s crying out for help. You haven’t been able to sleep for a year, you self-sabotage at work, you get triggered into panic attacks, you try to push me away… _This is going to kill you, Armitage.”_

“It’s only for some time. A limited time. It’s perfectly rational,” repeats Hux, and Ben can see, as clear as day, how he’s pulling away, how he’s withdrawing. He’s fixed on this – he’s probably fixed on a version of this since his academy days, it’s what kept him sane. And he’s not going to give it up now. He is unable to.

He can practically see it, how Hux is withdrawing, retreating into the fortress his father forced him to build – back to the harsh self-discipline and self-loathing he knows, which he’s clinging to, the only certain things in his world.

He needs to be stopped. _Now_.

“Can I help you to deal with it, at least?” he asks.

Hux looks up sharply. “What?”

“You said it yourself. What you do – what we have done – it grounds you. It gives you a release. Pain and control, they – help you.” He grits his teeth. “If you are going to put yourself through this – if you are going to accept your position under Snoke, and all that it entails – at least let me make it easier for you. Let me help you.”

Hux stares at him, mistrustful. “ _I’m not_ …”

“A charity case. Yeah, you already said that. I’ve never seen you as particularly deserving of pity, Armitage. Do you think I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart?” Ben suddenly leans forward, grabs Hux by the face, and kisses him.

It’s not a tender, gentle kiss – it’s hungry, fierce, lustful. Dark. Hux opens his eyes very wide, then sinks into it – only to open them again when Ben bites on his lip, drawing blood.

“I told you before,” growls Ben. “You need a Master. And you know perfectly well that I’m the only person who can deal with you and your shit. So you’re fucking lucky” – and he plunges his hand between Hux’s thighs, making him cry out; yes, he’s already hard – “that I want to fuck you until you cry out for mercy. I want to make you ride my cock and leave you so sore that absolutely everyone will know what a slut you are just by your gait the next day. I want to fuck your face and watch you gag – “ He stops, holding Hux’s increasingly glassy gaze in his. “Which reminds me, you haven’t thanked me properly for my discipline before. What should you have said?”

Hux blinks. “Thank you?”

A slap, hard. “Thank you _what_?”

Hux’s cock is tenting in his his slacks now, so strongly it must be hurting him. “Thank you, sir.”

And then Ben grabs him by the hair – his soft, soft hair – and pulls him roughly off the stool and onto the floor, so that he falls on four legs by the sofa armrest.

Hux stays down, head down, looking at the floor as Ben walks around to stand before him, the tips of his boots his sole visual anchor right now. Already he is panting hard.

“What are you?” asks Ben, from far, far above.

“ _What…?”_

A kick to the breastbone, swift and sharp. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Hux winces at the sudden pain. Then, his voice subservient and thick with lust: “What do you want me to be, sir?”

Unseen, Ben allows himself a smile. “Clever boy.” He leans forward and pulls him up by the hair again. Hux, who is already flushed with arousal, flushes even deeper at the praise. “Right now, you’re going to be my cocksleeve. Understood?”

“Yes. Yes, sir.” So, so eager. Before he can even think, Hux raises his head and hands to undo Ben’s fly – and is promptly rewarded with a backhand that throws him back to the floor, reeling.

“No, boy,” sniggers Ben, as if Hux were stupid. “A _cocksleeve_. You don’t get to suck me off. _I_ fuck your face.” And he pulls Hux up again, making him lose his balance, so that he has to scramble to his knees, supported only by Ben’s hands against his head.

While he’s still disoriented, Ben grabs his jaw with one hand, and forces his thick, engorged cock into Hux’s mouth, muffling his surprised cry. Hux’s immediate reaction is to try and slide up and down the shaft, but Ben’s hand holds his head still in place, like iron.

“What part of _cocksleeve_ do you not understand?” barks Ben. And pushes deep, reaching Hux’s uvula in an effortless thrust, sending a panicked wave of nausea through him. “It means something you use. Passive. _A thing._ ”

Hux’s eyes are closed, in concentration, in endurance, and, Ben suspects, in helpless lust at the degrading filth he is spouting. The combination of Ben reaming his mouth, his throat with his cock and depriving him of all agency is setting him afire. And then he looks up at Ben, eyes huge and brimming with tears, mouth full of Ben’s leaking cock, his own cock staining his crotch dark, and Ben almost comes on the spot – he looks so fucking _grateful_. So _relieved._

Ben hadn’t realised the extent of control by another that Hux needs – but, of course, it’s the equivalent of own unbending self-control, the one that has seen him through abuse and misery and loneliness. Ben has been a dom for many years now, but he has never felt a surge of sheer raw power like this before. He feels that he could give anything to Hux, do anything, and he would take it. And beg for more, and more, and more.

He looks down into those liquid jade eyes, and Hux shivers in his gaze. He is trembling violently now, his hands flapping uselessly at his sides – it hasn’t even occurred to him to touch himself. He looks – mindless. A wave of darkness engulfs Ben. “You’re an empty vessel I fill. A thing I use, “ he hisses. “You will do what I tell you do to, think what I tell you to think, feel what I tell you to feel. And _nothing more. You are nothing without my control._ ”

The last thing is able to do consciously is shout the command at Hux – “Come!” – as his own orgasm overtakes him, burning through his body, like fire, like lightning, blinding him, felling him, and he doesn’t even realise when his knees give way and he crumples to the floor next to Hux.

_That's a yes, then._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone - sorry about the delay. I live in a lockdown area, so I've been rather preoccupied with real life in the last few days, as I'm sure you'll understand. 
> 
> Hope everyone is OK out there. And thanks to everyone for reading and commenting. Your support is always welcome, but it's even more precious in these difficult times. And please take care.

_What the hell were you thinking of? “Sabotage us”? “You are pushing me away”?_

Ben is sitting at the kitchen counter, drinking coffee in his t-shirt and boxers while Hux continues to catch up on his sleep. He’s been trying to read the news on his phone, but his mind keeps going back to yesterday’s argument. And his reaction. As if Hux had been trying to… break up with him?

_Break up what? You’ve known him for all of two days, for fuck’s sake._

Hux is not his patient, granted. So the fact that Ben is obviously emotionally involved is not a problem _per se._ The problem is that –

_This is Poe all over again. Get a grip._

He looks up to see Hux padding into the living room, yawning and bleary-eyed, his red hair tousled, and smiles. He can’t help it – he likes mending things. And people.

“So,” he asks, handing him his oh-so-badly-needed mug of black coffee. “Ever tried fencing?”

***

_The fuck._

Hux collapses onto his back, slapping his hand on the floor repeatedly.

“Wrong sport,” grins Ben, looming over him, stick in hand. “This isn’t wrestling. I just killed you. Again.”

“ _I noticed,_ ” grumbles Hux, forcing himself up to a sitting position, covered in sweat. “I swear when you said ‘fencing’, I thought you meant putting up fences. Or painting fences. Like Tom Sawyer.”

“That’s because it takes your brain about half an hour to wake up, and that after a caffeine overdose. But isn’t this fun?”

“If your idea of fun is being battered to a pulp, yes.” He realises what he has just said. “ _Not_ like this.”

Ben laughs and stretches out his arm to help Hux up and they move towards the showers, Hux limping slightly.

“Isn’t fencing supposed to be about _swords_ , in any case? I wouldn’t have minded florets so much. What are we doing with bloody sticks?”

“Quarterstaff fencing originates in the Holy Roman Empire – it’s a venerable fencing tradition.”

“Because of course you are into obscure Renaissance forms of combat. You couldn’t just do CrossFit like normal people.” He thinks it over. “When I say _normal_ … Like many people, at any rate.”

“You’re not in bad shape, though,” smiles Ben. “Appearances notwithstanding. You need a teacher, though. What exercise do you usually do?”

Hux purses his lips and grabs a towel from a shelf. Ben leans back against the wall, appreciating the view as Hux strips. “Let me see. You can carry your body weight but probably not much more. Good stamina. Good control over your breath. Extremely good balance. Unusually flexible for a man.” He grins hugely. “It’s yoga, isn’t it?”

“Bugger off,” mutters Hux, flinging his boxers at Ben’s head as he steps into the shower.

***

Ben had hoped to spend the rest of the bank holiday doing something fun and relaxing, but, after lunch, Hux starts getting visibly fidgety and checking his phone constantly.

“Everything OK?” Ben asks him, as he clears away the remains of their meal. 

“What?” Hux looks up from the screen. “Ah. Yes. Yes. Everything’s fine. It’s just work.”

Ben tries to hide a frown, not, he’s afraid, all that successfully. But he quickly schools his features back to cheerfulness. _If you force this, you’ll chase him away._ Luckily, Hux is too preoccupied with whatever is going on in his messages to notice.

“They’ve moved a meeting to early tomorrow morning,” he says, eventually. “It’s important.” He looks apologetic. “I really should get going. I should prepare for it and try to get a good night’s sleep.”

“You can get a good night sleep’s here,” replies Ben, and immediately wishes he hadn’t, as he sees Hux’s face cloud over. He quickly changes tack. “But you do what you gotta do,” he adds breezily.

Hux is far too astute not to realise that Ben is making an effort to restrain himself, here. He walks up to him, slides his arm around his waist as he finishes loading the dishwasher, and gently kisses him on the cheek. “Thanks,” he whispers. “It’s been a great weekend. I hope we can do something like that again soon.” He pauses for a second. “No sticks next time, though. Please.”

Ben smiles and draws Hux close against him. “As many Sun salutations as you like next time, I promise,” he says, and kisses him deeply.

When they emerge from the kiss he tilts back his head and drinks the sight of him in – Hux always looks a bit dazed and flushed, after, as if he were slightly drunk. It makes Ben instantaneously hard – and, from the look of his trousers, Hux too. But he knows that’s not the card to play right now. He leans forward and whispers into Hux’s ear: “I can guarantee that you sleep well, if you want, though.”

And smiles again against Hux’s skin, against his smell, as sees the fine reddish hairs on his neck stand on end.

***

With a tired sigh, Hux shuts his laptop – _finally_ – and rises from the armchair behind his desk. Glances at his watch: it’s far later than he’d realised, and he needs to get up at an ungodly hour, far too early.

He feels his stomach tighten as he thinks about the meeting tomorrow. He’s done all he could possibly do, he tries to reassure himself – he knows the figures by heart, he can argue for his projected investment strategy forcefully and eloquently, and, recent slips notwithstanding, he’s got the track record to prove it, overall. He’s got it down cold.

And yet.

When he thinks about meeting with Snoke face to face, about sitting across the table of him – or worse, standing in front of that shrivelled, vicious-looking old man, his skin just crawls. And he’s sure Snoke can tell. And it's obvious that he _relishes_ causing that reaction.

Ben’s words echo, unbidden, in his mind. _This is going to kill you, Armitage._

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, he thinks, grimly, and he certainly isn’t going to allow himself to be killed by that desiccated arsehole. God knows he’s had practice dealing with sadistic sociopaths in his life. He’s going to tough it out, and bear it, and he’s going to _win. Stiffen the sinews._

He’s so tired, though – as he makes his way to bed, exhaustion washes over him like a wave. He takes off his robe, and gratefully slides into the cool, welcoming sheets.

Not as welcoming, though, as Ben’s.

He stirs, tosses, turns. Then gives up and edges towards his phone, which he’s left charging on the nightstand.

A message. Ben. From a couple of hours ago.

_Let me know if you have trouble sleeping._

He sighs in frustration and regret. It’s probably too late now. Nonetheless, he types:

_Got immersed in work. Off to sleep now. Will call tomorrow._

There. Terse. To the point. Not clingy at all or as if he’s missing Ben or anything –

The phone buzzes with a reply.

_Want help?_

He stares at the word. Help. So dangerous. So tempting.

Swallows.

_That would be nice._

Almost immediately, the phone rings.

“Hey,” Ben’s baritone. Hux can hear his smile. He’s shocked by the extent of his own relief.

“Hey.”

“Are you in bed?”

“Yes.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted. Worried.” He thinks, but does not say, _I miss your bed._

On the line, Ben hums, the by now familiar low thrumming from the well of his throat. Wordless, but so full of meaning. Of presence. _I’m here. I’m here._

“Okay. I want you to lie on your back, with your hands under the sheets. Can you set your phone to handsfree?”

“Yes,” answers Hux, as he arranges himself, placing the phone on the empty pillow by his head.

“Good boy.” Immediately, Hux’s penis stirs, as he feels himself sinking into – softness. Compliance. As if he’s giving in, finally. And it feels so good. Such a _relief_. “Good boy,” repeats Ben, as if he has sensed Hux’s reaction from afar.

“Now bring your left hand under your shirt. Place it on your belly. Breathe. Can you feel how it goes up and down as you breathe?”

“Hm-hm.”

“Good. Feel your navel, your ribs. Move up to your nipples.”

Hux’s breath catches as his fingers skim his oh-so-sensitive areolae.

“Circle them. Lightly. Breathe in deep. That’s right. Breathe.”

Hux’s penis is now unmistakably hard. He moans slightly.

“Bring your right hand to your throat. Encircle it. Tight.” Hux’s arousal must be audible, because Ben adds, softly threatening. “Don’t you dare touch yourself, boy.”

Hux closes his eyes, and falls into Ben’s voice as it leads him, caresses him, instructs him. The connection between Ben’s orders and his movements is so immediate, so unthinking, that it feels as if his hands were no longer his, as if it were Ben gently stroking his nipples, tracing the arc of his ribs, pressing against his throbbing carotid. He feels – under control. Held. And so, so hard.

“Please,” he groans.

“Squeeze your throat, boy. Hard.”

Hux’s breath, already ragged, becomes even more laboured. His cock is leaking.

“Can you feel what I can do to you? Can you feel how I force you? _You know I can take whatever I want_.”

Hux is practically keening now, his cock straining painfully against his boxers, his nipples rock hard. He’s trembling. “Please,” he begs. “ _Please, sir._ ”

Ben’s voice on the other side of the line is thick and short-breathed now. “Squeeze tighter.”

He does, and finds his body arching up against the sheet, a taut bow, straining, desperate to let go. Inarticulate sounds come out of his mouth, an uncontrolled babbling, a wordless plea.

“What are you?” demands the voice, and the word comes out of Hux as if pulled by an invisible force, a cry beyond his volition.

“ _Yours.”_

“Come.”

And the bow of his body spasms and lets loose, a volley of white fire blazing behind his eyes, his skin on fire, his senses lost, and he comes and comes and comes as his hands grabs desperately, helplessly, onto the pillow under his head. Somewhere, somehow, he dimly registers a roar in the background.

When he calms down, his crotch is sodden and sticky, and he is covered in sweat. Usually, he would get up and take a shower, unable to tolerate it for long, and certainly unable to go to sleep in this state. But he can’t move. He can’t even think. He opens his clenched fists, and sinks into the mattress as if the earth were calling him, every muscle heavy.

“ _Sleep_ ,” says the voice, commanding once more. And, the order entirely bypassing his conscious mind, he obeys.


	9. Chapter 9

He wears black to see Snoke.

It’s not really his colour – grey and navy and dark green suit him better; black makes his pallor all too stark – but he feels he needs the forcefulness of black, now. It’s only when he’s already on his way to Snoke’s office that he realises that Ben – Master Ren – wore all black.

Anyway. Deep breath. And he walks into Snoke’s domain.

It’s a huge office – it must take up one third of the entire floor plan of the building – and you have to walk for at least twenty-five steps until you come close to Snoke. Hux knows, because he’s counted. And, as he also knows, this is absolutely by design.

Snoke’s desk and throne-like chair are massive dark affairs made of some endangered species of wood. The surface of desk is so highly polished that Hux can see the man’s bulging, bald head reflected on it: it’s completely bare, except for a sliver-like, obviously not commercially available laptop that Snoke keeps constantly within hand’s reach.

On either side of the desk lies an untethered Dobermann – both of them raise their heads as Hux approaches, and fix their cold, shark-like eyes on him, but otherwise do not react. Hux has heard that Snoke had their vocal cords removed when they were puppies and had them trained with Pavlovian methods involving electric cattle prods. And now they are constantly by his side, silent, killer sphinxes; Snoke calls them his praetorian guard.

There are no windows in the room, even though the office, at this height and with this surface area, would no doubt command a spectacular view of the city. But Snoke prefers the harsh, clinical light to the actual sun; and his graphs and figures and data provide him with much more accurate representations of the world than anything anyone could ever see with their mere eyes. The only concession to convention is a cluster of pictures on the wall next to the chair: Snoke with various world leaders – Reagan, Thatcher, Putin, Milton Friedman, Bolsonaro, Trump. In all of them, it is clear who the dominant figure is.

There are no chairs in the room other than Snoke’s, so when Hux reaches the desk, he remains standing, arms folded behind his back in a muscle memory of his military training. It seems the proper stance, here.

“So,” says the withered man, in a withering voice. “Did I make a mistake?”

“Sir?”

“Did I make a mistake with you, Armitage Hux? Was I wrong in bringing you here and giving you such an exalted position at First Order?”

A rhetorical question? A trick question? Possibly a trap. But it seems that Snoke is waiting for an actual answer.

“No, sir. It don’t think it was a mistake.”

“No?” growls Snoke. “Then why has your performance in the last two months been so disappointing?”

Hux swallows, looks down, then up again. “I have been – unwell, sir.”

“ _Unwell?_ ” Snoke smiles, a mocking, vicious smirk, as if he cannot believe that Hux has said something so stupid. “Unwell? If there’s something I would never have expected from Brendol Hux’s offspring, it’s a concern with _wellness._ So what do you intend to do about it, Mr Hux? Engage in self-care? Take up yoga? Take a sabbatical to _find yourself_?”

Hux, who can actually hold a crow’s pose for minutes like nobody’s business, opts to look at his feet and say nothing.

“ _Weakness_ ,” spits Snoke. “Just weakness. And there’s no room for that at First Order. This is a Darwinian business, Mr Hux. Free market rules. Survival of the fittest.” He glances at the pictures on the wall. “All that matters to me is your performance. How you bring in the cash is your own concern – it’s a matter of complete indifference to me if you are coughing your lungs out or pissing blood. As long as I get results.”

“I understand, sir. It’s taken care of now. It won’t happen again.”

Snoke sits back in his chair, and studies Hux’s face for a long minute. “I see the potential in you, Mr Hux. I see greatness. But you are flawed.” He leans forward, and for a terrifying second Hux has the impression that he’s going to pounce on him. “You need to root your weakness out. Kill it. Only then will you prove that you are the true son of your father.”

Repressing a shudder of revulsion, Hux nods. “Yes, sir.”

Snoke narrows his eyes, which in this light look almost yellow, like a lizard’s. “What do you know about the Hosnian Foundation?”

“Hosnian?” Hux blinks, perplexed by the sudden change of topic, then quickly rallies. He frowns, summoning up the knowledge. “The Hosnian family. Of Persian origin – the father escaped from Iran as a political refugee in the seventies and started an electronics emporium, which in turn led to the manufacturing of medical equipment. Since then, the family business has diversified, but the second generation is focusing on their network of private hospitals.”

“They want to turn them into a fucking NGO,” says Snoke in disgust. “The children are bleeding-heart liberals. They have ended their deals with insurance companies and set up their own ‘affordable’ healthcare system for ‘the disadvantaged’.” The mocking inverted commas audible. “Fucking social justice warriors. Fucking woke darkies. Coming to this country from shitholes and trying to upend the way we do things here when they should be grateful that we took them in. Fucking _socialists_.” He is practically foaming at the mouth with fury now. “They will fuck up the entire insurance industry in this state if they get away with it, and the rot could extend to the rest of the country.” And to First Order’s heavy investments in medical insurance. “I won’t tolerate it. Or next thing we know, people will think that they are actually _entitled_ to _universal healthcare_.” This spoken as if he were eating a slug. “I want you to make an example of them.”

“You…? Sir?

“They can only afford to forego the extra income from insurance companies because they have all their other businesses bringing in revenues. I want you to stop that. Strangle them.”

And then Hux sees. “You want me to take control of their other companies.”

Snoke’s malevolent smile again. “Or control those who control them. Either way suits me. But I want you to make sure that the Hosnians, and everyone else, understand that you don’t go against First Order. Ever.”

Hux stands in stunned silence as Snoke turns his attention to the razor-like device on his desk.

“That will be all. You’re dismissed, Mr Hux.”

For a second, he has the impulse to take the first steps backwards, still facing Snoke, as one does when leaving the Queen’s presence – although in this case it’s more because you really don’t want to expose your back to Snoke and his dogs of prey.

He forces himself to swivel on his feet and walk the long way back to the door, ramrod-straight, as if on parade, eyes ahead, with no hesitation or looking back.

As has just been made clear to him, any sign of weakness, here, is lethal.

***

When he gets back to his desk, he sees a message on his phone. Ben.

_How did it go?_

He pushes the phone back into his pocket. He feels nauseous.

And of course Mitaka picks that precise moment to bring in some report or whatever. “Sir, the…” He takes a look at Hux’s face. “Are you OK, sir?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” he replies stiffly. It’s the first time he’s seen Mitaka since… He wonders if he’ll ever be able to see him in the same light again. But his PA is being his usual efficient, pleasant self. “I could do with some coffee, though,” he relents, and Mitaka smiles amiably.

“Of course, sir. Blacker than black.” As he leaves the office he turns. “Oh, by the way. Ms Phasma from the Security Department called. She wanted to know if you could meet her for lunch today.” 

Absolutely no tell, no tic, no indication. Just polite, deferential neutrality. Mitaka must be a formidable poker player, reflects Hux, duly taking note.

***

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

They are sitting at a small table in the Italian restaurant near the office building, because both of them refuse to eat the swill in the company canteen as a matter of principle, and because they prefer not to be seen together, just in case. Phasma has worked in security at First Order long enough to be justified in her paranoia, and Hux tends to agree with her.

“Dopheld asked me not to. He thought you would freak out.” She considers him. “And it looks like he was right.”

Inappetent, Hux pushes the crumpets in his Caesar salad around. “I’m fine with it. It’s just a bit… odd.”

“Odd? I send you to my girlfriend’s therapist and you end up fucking. And it’s Dopheld’s relationship with me that’s odd?”

“We haven’t fucked,” mutters Hux. And suddenly realises that no, they haven’t, and whyever not?

“Yet.” Phasma smirks at him in amusement. “Look, Ben is a really great guy, and a good friend. And I understand that he didn’t take you on as his patient, so there’s no ethical conflict. It’s just…” She glances down at Hux’s fiddling with his food. “I really think you need help, Hux. And I’m not sure how much Ben can help you if he’s emotionally involved.”

Hux says nothing. He wants to say, what involvement? What help? He wants to tell Phasma that it’s just sex and kindly to fuck off, in their usual friendly way. But it’s Ben. The man is so open, so genuine, it’s ridiculous to even try and pretend otherwise, even to himself.

And he can’t pretend that he is not accepting it willingly. He won’t talk about it because that would be tantamount to admitting it, and he can’t deal with that right now. But he won’t deny it, either.

“Eat up, for god’s sake,” Phasma urges him, exasperated, as she tucks into her own lusciously cheesy lasagne. “You’ll need your energy levels high in case Ben drags you along to his training sessions.” She looks up and sees Hux’s expression. “Oh god, he already has, hasn’t he?” She leans back in her chair and studies him for a moment, smiling. “Hm. This may turn out to be more interesting than I thought, after all.”


	10. Chapter 10

Ben gets Hux’s call later that evening, as he’s sitting in his office, tidying up to go home.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“So how did your day go?” He doesn’t want to ask specifically, but they both know what he’s referring to.

“Oh. Fine. Thanks.” An awkward pause. “Look, Ben, I – I will have to work a lot over the coming days. I don’t think I’ll be able to see you in a couple of weeks at least.”

Ben clenches his fist silently. Forces himself to say: “Okay.” Far, far too curt. He adds, in a gentler tone: “Armitage, I told you that I wanted to help you through this.” He takes a deep breath. “I understand if you need to work more. But you can always, _always_ call me if you need to, or if you just want to talk. Any time. I’m here.”

“I know.” Hux’s voice sounds slightly stiff, slightly muffled. “Thank you, Ben.” A pause. “I… do want to see you again, Ben. I really do. It’s just – this is a really difficult time.”

Ben hums, nodding. “I understand. But please remember it. I’ll be here. Any time. Will you keep it in mind?”

“Yes,” almost choked. “I – I need to go back to the office now. Thank you.”

“Take –“ But Hux has hung up already. “– care, Armitage.”

He looks at the blank phone screen, thinking of how he would have hurled the device against the wall in the past. Then shrugs on his coat and makes himself put the phone away.

***

He hears nothing from Hux for almost two weeks. He sends a couple of tentative messages, not asking how he is, but forwarding silly stories that he thinks will amuse him. When Hux reads them but doesn’t reply, he stops messaging.

And then he is sitting in his living room on Friday evening, reading after dinner, when the phone buzzes.

_Can I see you?_

He quickly types back: _Of course. Where are you?_

_Downstairs._

He buzzes him up and opens the apartment door to meet him. And is shocked by what he sees.

Hux had looked an exhausted mess the first came he saw him, when he came into his office, supposedly to seek help. But this is something else entirely. The man looks as if he had been literally tortured.

“Armitage? What –? Come in.”

He leads him into the apartment, lightly grabbing him by the elbow, and Hux looks so unstable on his feet that for a second he’s afraid that he will topple and fall over. He quickly manoeuvres him onto the sofa, where he sits back, looking – literally drained. As if he had lost litres of blood. He has black circles under his eyes and a rash around his jaw – which he obviously hasn’t shaved in many days – but it’s his expression that worries Ben most. Almost fugue-like, as if most of his mind were somewhere else, and not in a very good place. He’s trembling.

As Ben scans him over, he notices red marks peeking out of his shirt cuffs. He grabs the unresisting Hux by the arm and pushes the sleeve up. Long red scratches down the inside of his arm. Nails.

He crouches in front of Hux. “What happened?” he whispers.

Hux glances down at the marks, as if they had nothing to do with him. As if his body was something completely unconnected to him. “I’m not sure. I was – worried. Or perhaps it was the dogs. I don’t know. I didn’t notice.” He becomes agitated.

 _The dogs?_ And then Ben remembers, and flexes his hand so hard that he digs his nails into his palm. He brings his other hand up to Hux’s face, strokes it gently. “It’s okay. It’s okay. What happened, Armitage?”

“I… I… I’m a horrible person, Ben. I’m _bad._ I – “ He starts shaking violently, his face distorted with fear and self-loathing. “I need you to hurt me, Ben. _Please_.” His eyes as he pleads desperate. He grips Ben’s wrist, hard. “I’m a fucking piece of shit, Ben. Please hurt me really, _really_ badly. I deserve it. I only deserve –”

Ben places his other hand over Hux’s grip on his wrist. “Armitage,” he says calmly. “Tell me what happened.”

Hux looks at him like a terrified little boy. “I’m doing something horrible.”

“What are you doing, Armitage?”

“Starkiller. I’m – I’m going to destroy the Hosnian Foundation.” He’s biting on his dry lips now, drawing blood, and his hand moves to the scratches on the opposite arm as if of its own accord, to dig again. To scrape his own flesh out.

Ben gently restrains him, holds both of Hux’s hands prisoner in his own. “Hosnian. The hospitals?”

“Y-y-yes. Snoke wants me to – he told me to –“ He is sobbing outright now. “They are good people. They do _good_ things. I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to find ways of – of protecting them. Somehow. Taking control but protecting them, keeping at least some of the programmes.” He hunches over, trying to turn himself into as much of a ball as possible. “I – went to Snoke. With it. Tried to convince him. Said no. Hit me.” He’s at breaking point now, Ben realises, but he needs to hear this out. “And I – I said I would do what he ordered. I would obey.”

He collapses into Ben’s arms, convulsed by his shaking and sobbing, as he keeps saying, over and over: “I’m weak – I’m disgusting – I’m a _bad person –_ I couldn’t – I couldn’t…”

Ben holds him, thinking furiously. He knows the Hosnian Foundation. As Hux says, they are good people, who do seriously good work – he has taught there, training children’s therapists to work with lower-income kids and their families. He’s not surprised in the least that Snoke would go after them.

“Armitage. Armitage.” He pushes Hux slightly back, so he can look him in the eye. “Armitage, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do what Snoke says. You can leave any time.”

“ _I can’t,”_ replies Hux among hiccoughs. “Snoke sponsors my work visa. I wouldn’t give a shit about being deported back to England – but he says that if I leave, he’ll – he’ll –“ His head drops. “He’ll plant. Stuff. On me. Really, really bad stuff. And he has contacts. In the courts, criminals. I know he does. And – he’s threatened Phasma also. Dopheld. He knows I care about them. I don’t know how he’s found out. If I leave, he’ll – “ And again is wracked by sobs.

Ben’s jaw tightens. Hux is telling the truth, and he’s absolutely right. Snoke _will_ retaliate in the most painful way possible if Hux dares to try and leave First Order. The side of his face, where he had the scar painfully lasered off, itches at the memory of what happened when _he_ left First Order.

He tightens his arms around Hux, who is now shaking and crying uncontrollably. Begging to be hurt, to be punished, to be _damaged_ with such desperation that he’s almost inarticulate, an animal whimpering. “Shhh. Shhh,” he hushes the trembling man. “It’s all right. It’s all right, Hux. You’ve done the right thing coming to me. I’ll take care of it. I promise. It’s all right.”

But Hux isn’t ready to calm down. He grasps Ben’s shirt. “ _Please,_ _Ben,”_ he babbles. “You haven’t fucked me. Fuck me. Dry. Please. Hard. Dry. You can use me anyway you want. Make me _hurt._ Make me _bleed.”_

Ben takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. _You really, really need to get this right._

“I’m not going to hurt you, Armitage,” he says quietly. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You don’t deserve to be hurt and damaged.”

Hux grows more and more agitated against him. “But I – I – “ He starts to scratch himself again, only this time he’s digging into his neck, into his jawline, his face, scraping his nails harshly, cruelly, against the tortured, reddened skin. “ _I can’t –_ “

“ _Stop that, Armitage_ ”, says Ben, in his most authoritative voice as he pulls his hands away from his face, but Hux is out of control now. He keens and wails, struggling against him, struggling against himself, writhing as if his own flesh and skin were on fire and he were somehow trying to escape them.

 _“I can’t bear it,”_ he cries, and buries his head in the hollow of Ben’s neck, shaking and sobbing and struggling in despair.

He’s going to hurt himself, realises Ben. He needs containment. Restraint.

And then he remembers.

He stands up, gently bringing Hux up with him. He brings his hands up to Hux’s tear- and blood-streak face, cups it. Waits until his shaking subsides, a little. “I know. I know, Hux. I’m going to take care of you. Come with me.”

He leads the almost zombie-like Hux into the guest bedroom, sits him down on the bed. “I’m going to fetch something. I’ll be back in thirty seconds. Can you wait here for me?”

Hux looks up at him with dazed, glassy eyes. Says nothing. Ben gulps and hurries out of the room, hoping he’ll be quick enough.

He is. When he returns, carrying the large black bag, Hux is exactly in the same position in which he left him, sitting at the edge of the bed, hunched over, staring at his own bloodied knuckles. He leaves the black bag on the armchair in the bedroom and gently leads Hux to the bathroom, where he insists that he relieve himself. Then they go back to the bedroom.

“Strip,” says Ben, hoping that Hux will react to the command in his voice. And he must have thought that he is going to be given the pain he begged for, because he stands up and starts to take his clothes off, almost robotically. When he is stark naked he gazes up at Ben, expectantly. Completely reliant.

Ben opens the black bag and brings out a pair of pale blue hospital pyjamas. “Put these on.” Hux quickly obeys.

Ben takes a deep breath. “I want to restrain you, Armitage. I don’t think you need pain. I think you need, really badly, to be physically tied down tonight. Under control. _Held_.” He brings out a few more things out of the black bag and places them on the bed. Looks up at Hux. Who stares at them, wide, wide eyed. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, though.”

On the bed in front of them are several broad black velcroed straps. Soft padded mittens and booties for hands and feet. A black leather hood.

And a straitjacket.

“Will you allow me to restrain you, Armitage?”

Hux looks up at him, his pupils so dilated that his eyes are almost black. He looks wild, feral. He looks terrified.

He nods.

Ben exhales in relief. “Thank you, Armitage.”

***

First he places the padded mittens on Hux’s hands, the booties on his feet. Then he guides his arms through the straitjacket sleeves, crossing them and fastening them at his sides, so that the buckles won’t dig into his back.

It’s a real psychiatric straitjacket, which he managed to procure from a facility in which he worked for some time. He’d never use anything remotely similar in his professional practice – he finds this kind of thing barbaric – but he does recognise the fetishistic appeal of it. And it does work particularly well on people who actually know what he does for a living – the mind will make its own twisted associations, willy-nilly.

When he is satisfied that the straitjacket is snugly but comfortably fastened, he helps Hux to lie back on the bed, and ties his legs together with two broad straps, one at his ankles, another over his knees, so that he can bend his legs comfortably but not open them. Then he fastens two other straps to the straitjacket, one on each side, and then secures the other end of each strap to a leg of the bed. Hux can now turn over and move where he lies, but not sit up or fall off the bed.

Through all of this, Hux allows himself to be handled docilely, almost like a doll. But as Ben finally approaches him, black leather hood in his hands, he raises those wild jade eyes. Hux is now practically panting, a mixture of fear, arousal, and need.

Before Ben can ask for confirmation again, he breathes: _“Please._ Before I change my mind.”

Ben nods mutely, and gently brings the hood down over his head.

Its soft, and padded, and the smell of leather is not overpowering, not unpleasant. The orifices for eyes and mouth are covered, but it’s easy to breathe through the nose orifices – Ben checks, feeling Hux’s warm breath on the palm of his hand.

“You can make a noise with your voice if you need to, at any time,” he tells Hux. “I will hear it. And I have not covered your ears. I want you to be able to hear. Do you understand?”

A slight nod from the leather-covered head.

“Good. Wait a second.” He pads away again, and returns as swiftly as before. Off comes the cover over the mouth hole, and Hux feels something pressing against his lips. A metal straw. He sips cool water. After a few sips, Ben withdraws the straw, the covers his mouth again.

And then Hux feels Ben’s hand on his thigh.

He is aroused by Ben’s manhandling, by these restraints, by this utter helplessness. Ben’s hand gently cups his cock beneath his pyjamas, feeling its stirring, its growing hardness. His palm slides under the elasticated waist, over his groin –

Then something slick and cool closes around his cock with a snap. A cage.

“I want you under control tonight, Armitage,” whispers Ben. And Hux slowly exhales, feeling frustrated, feeling even more aroused, feeling strangely calm, feeling that it’s _just right._

And then the turmoil in his mind starts again. The shame. The despair. The self-hatred. The need to just… just… just –

“Lose yourself,” says Ben’s voice quietly, from somewhere in the room. “That’s what you are trying to do. As I told you, I can help you do that, Armitage. If you’ll let me put you together back again, later.” 

Hux feels the weight of Ben’s hand on his leg as he moves around the bed to the nightstand. “I’m going to hold you down and make you stop thinking for tonight.” He turns something on, and a soft sound fills the room – some sort of white noise. “Just listen for a while. Listen to your heartbeat. Your pulse in your veins, in your temples. Listen to this white noise. Relax. Sink. Everything is okay.” The reassuring weight lifts from Hux’s leg and he panics for a second. Noticing it, Ben caresses him again. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Hux. I just need to do something for a few minutes, and then I’ll be back and stay here with you. Count your breaths meanwhile. Can you do that for me?”

A pause, and then a slight nod.

“Good. Thank you. I’ll be right back.”

***

He calls the number for the first time in years. And after the initial surprised exclamations and greetings – first concerned, then joyful, then resentful, as he expected – he does what he had vowed never to do.

“Yes… yes, Mom. Yes, I know. It’s – yes, we can talk about that later. But right now I need your help.”

***

When he returns to the bedroom, Hux seems to have relaxed into a steady rhythm, his breaths deeper and longer. He perks up as he hears Ben come in.

“I’m here,” says Ben, bringing the armchair next to the bed and placing his hand on Hux’s leg again. “I’m here.” And, even though the faceless man lying in front of him, tied down to the bed, is essentially a shapeless form, he can see how he calms down, the depth of his relief.

Ben swallows. He loves being a dominant, and understands the huge responsibility that comes with it – he is endlessly grateful for the trust that those who submit place in him, and always strives to deserve it. But the extent to which Hux is placing himself in his hands – it’s humbling. Knowing the extent of Hux’s damage and devastation, how he hurts, his shame and fear and self-loathing, he can only marvel at the unthinkable bravery that taking this leap has required. Ben may be the dominant here, but right now he’s in awe of Hux’s courage and strength as a submissive.

He wants to be worthy of it. Of him.

He starts to talk, quietly. “I want you to imagine something, Armitage. Picture your mind as a pool. Can you see it? A deep, dark pool. The surface is covered in leaves and twigs, the wind blows across it, making waves. Can you hear how the water laps at the edge? Back and forth, all the time, back and forth, like a tide.”

“And then, below the surface, there are whirlpools. Eddies, traps where the water turns and pulls, and leads you down, down into the bottom, into the darkness. It moves constantly, darkly, circling and circling.”

“But now the wind is stopping. The air calms down. There’s no sun – it’s not a sunny day – but the air is cool and fresh and calm, like the air after the rain. Can you feel it? There’s only a slight breeze, but it’s winding down. Winding down. Until nothing moves. There’s only your breath.”

“You can see how the leaves, the branches, all the weeds and the scum, all the debris, it’s all gone. The surface of the pond is clean. Clear. The pond is still now. Smooth. Like a polished surface. Like a black obsidian mirror.”

“If you lean over, you can glimpse the turmoil in the depth. The undercurrents. They are slowing down. Stilling. They circle more and more slowly, until they stop. It all stops. All the thoughts and memories and desires and feelings and fears – they stop.”

“Look at the pool. The limpid, clear, still surface. You lean over, and you can see all the way down into it, into the clear, green depths.” And he, Ben, he sees them too. The colour of Hux’s eyes. “It’s cool and calm and clear. Transparent. Quiet. Still.”

He takes a deep breath. Looks at the man on the bed, utterly vulnerable, utterly helpless. Utterly in his hands. Something clenches in the pit of his stomach, in his chest, with desire, with tenderness, with fierce protectiveness.

“That what it is right now. A still, vacant pool. There’s no thoughts, no memories or fears or desires. Just emptiness and calm. There’s no Hux now, no Armitage, no you. Just – nothingness.”

“Fall into it. Sink. Deeper. Deeper. There’s no need to think, no need to feel. Let go of your mind.”

Ben can now feel how Hux is completely relaxed, completely boneless under his hand. “It’s all right. I’m here. I’m here for you. I’ll let you know when you need to come back.”

“Let go.”

And with a final shudder, Hux’s body stills, in perfect, profound, exquisite repose.

Ben release the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding, and gently removes his hand from Hux’s leg, which doesn’t even stir. He leans back in the armchair, steeples his fingers. And settles down to watch over Hux through the night.


	11. Chapter 11

When Hux starts to stir in the morning, Ben is already there, ready – he didn’t want Hux to wake and not remember where he was, risking the panic of finding himself physically helpless.

“Morning,” he says softly, rubbing his legs as he starts to untie him, legs first, then the side ties. He keeps the light in the room low, mindful of Hux's eyes, kept in the dark for so long. He helps Hux out of the straitjacket, then gently pulls the hood off and frowns in concern as Hux blinks as his pale eyes grow accustomed to the light again –

And, again, is shocked by the look on Hux’s face when his gaze finally focuses on him.

He looks – young. Or not exactly young, but rather – _soft_. Vulnerable. But not in the way in which he looks vulnerable when Ben dominates him. It’s more, realises Ben, that he’s vulnerable because he seems so open. So _trusting._

He swallows past the unexpected knot in his throat and smiles. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Hux’s voice is almost a croak. But he smiles blissfully. And his eyes – so _soft._ Ben wonders, amazed, how the tortured Hux who came to his apartment last night could possibly be the same person as this relaxed, rested, utterly content man. Who is practically _purring_ with pleasure.

And then Hux raises himself on his elbows. And, in a way that is not remotely submissive or subdued, grabs Ben by the collar of his shirt, pulls him down towards him, and kisses him deeply.

Ben is stunned by Hux’s sudden energy, but it’s not aggressive, rather hungry. Sensuous. He sinks into the kiss, into Hux’s warmth, opening his lips to his probing tongue, allowing him to take as much as he wants. They kiss for minutes.

When they emerge, breathless, Hux brings his hand to Ben’s shoulder and leans forward, into the hollow of his neck. “Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely.

***

He runs a bath for Hux and sits on the edge of the tub, sponging him down. Hux protests at first, but not that convincingly, and soon sits back and allows himself to be taken care of.

“We’ll have to talk about what happened last night,” he muses, eventually. “All of it?”

“Yes,” says Ben, running the sponge over the long marks on Hux’s forearms, saying nothing. “But not now.” He wants to think about it more carefully, himself. And they have things to do.

Later, he makes Hux his requisite strong coffee and they share a pan of scrambled eggs at the kitchen counter. “You’ll have to wear your jacket today. They are picking us up later.”

“Who are?”

“You’ll see.”

***

Ben’s phone buzzes at about eleven, and when they go downstairs to the street, a driver is waiting for them, standing next to a Lexus.

“Are you telling me now where we are going?” asks Hux, once they are both settled in the back seat behind the driver’s partition.

“Greenfield.”

Hux gapes in horrified disbelief. “We are meeting with the Hosnians?” Ben nods. “How…?”

“My mother. She has contacts. I called her and asked her to pull some strings for me. She did.”

“What…? What are we going to…?”

“I arranged a meeting with Farzaneh and Parviz Hosnian, who are in charge of the Foundation now. The only way to find a way out of this situation is to let them know what’s going on, Armitage. They need to know you are not on Snoke’s side. And we’ll see if we can figure something out. Having my mother behind us will help.”

Hux sighs, worried. Then looks at Ben and recognises the tension all too well. “You… don’t get all that well with your mother.”

Ben snorts out a laugh. “You could say that, yes.”

A pause. Then Hux, tentatively: “What happened? More or less. If I may ask.”

Ben smiles wearily. “Of course you may ask. It’s just – “ He looks away, at the cars zooming past him in the window, not really seeing, and Hux recognises it in his eyes, the mixture of hurt and just being so _tired_ of going over the same old, painful story.

Ben takes a deep sigh. “I told you that my mother had wanted me to follow on her steps in politics. I’m an only child, and she was – _is_ – really, really ambitious for me from a very young age. My father was sort of a disappointment to her, I think – he was perfectly happy with his freight company. I tested as gifted when I was about four – I think all that “gifted” stuff is basically nonsense and harmful to children, by the way – and they sent me to live with my uncle Luke, who ran a sort of Montessori-like, hippyish school. Lots of “spiritual” stuff, lots of “expressing yourself” – provided that it was in the right way, of course. When I started expressing my feelings of abandonment and anger, erm, rather forcefully, everyone freaked out. So, to make a long story short, horrible time in school, awful adolescence, appalling time in college. And I kept acting out, over and over. In increasingly violent ways. I’m lucky I didn’t end up in jail, to be honest.”

Hux listens as neutrally as he can, concealing his amazement. He can see the hurt child and teenager that Ben must have been, he thinks – that’s where all his empathy, all his compassion for damaged people comes from. He finds it hard to imagine him losing control of his anger, though.

“Anyway. I somehow managed to finish a degree in Psychology, despite my mother’s objections, because I was actually interested. She wanted me to get a master’s or a Ph.D. in International Relations or something like that, afterwards, but I came into my grandfather’s inheritance when I turned twenty-one. I decided to take a sabbatical in Paris and start a Ph.D. there, because I needed to get as far away from my family as possible for some time.”

“I had been in therapy many times since I was a kid, in the States, of course. Always completely useless – I usually ended up biting the therapist, or punching a hole in the wall, or things like that. But one of my teachers in Paris was a psychoanalyst. He must have noticed that I was in really bad shape, and suggested that I might want to start an analysis with a colleague of his. By then I had realised that the European psychoanalytical tradition is quite different from the American one – it’s not medicalised, for one – and, to be honest, I was desperate. So I gave it a try.”

“It worked, eventually. Mainly, I think, because even though there was clearly something very wrong with me, I was always treated as a grownup. And it was completely non-judgemental – I was able to talk about my fears and my anger and my desires without any criticism for the first time, without being told that anger wasn’t healthy or that I got aroused by the wrong things. So I ended up training as an analyst in France for several years. I sort of – put myself together as an adult, separate from my family, then, for the first time. And I also found how to channel my aggression as a dominant, in ways that didn’t damage me or others and actually helped me.”

“Yes, well, the French would be good at that,” murmurs Hux drily, recalling his shock the first time he had come across a French edition of _The Story of O_ as a teenager.

Ben smiles briefly. “Anyway. I hadn’t spoken to my family for about two years when I got a call from uncle Lando, a friend of my father’s. He’d been in an accident in his truck and wasn’t expected to make it. I flew back to California, only to find that my father was braindead, kept alive by a machine. And my mother was in limbo, stalling, unable to make the decision.”

“So I had to make it. I told the doctors to pull the plug. And while my mother knows that it was the right thing to do, she has resented me ever since. She already resented me – I had disappointed her, I had rejected all that she had wanted for me and run away and turned into someone she didn’t really understand. And now I had killed my father. So – we haven’t talked much since. Other than calling her on Thanksgiving and her birthday and suchlike.”

“And yesterday.”

“And yesterday.”

Hux thinks of asking what the price is going to be – because, from his own experience, he knows there _will_ be a price – but he refrains. Ben has already told him enough.

***

The driver leaves them in front of the lawned driveway of Greenfield Hospital, and Ben leads the way into the building.

“You know this place,” points out Hux.

“I have worked here,” replies Ben. “I ran some training for them. Children’s therapy, mainly.”

“ _Children_??”

“I like children, a lot. They’re – so honest. So genuine. And so helpless if things go wrong.” He adds, quietly: “Personally, I think hurting a child is the worst possible thing a person can do. Children can’t defend themselves.”

Hux is stunned by this, but before he can react, they reach the room Ben is heading to, an office on the second floor. He knocks and they walk in, to find a man and a woman waiting for them.

They both stand up to greet them with polite apprehension.

“Dr Hosnian, Mr Hosnian,” says Ben, shaking hands with them. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with us on a Sunday. This is my friend, Armitage Hux.”

The Hosnian siblings hesitate for a second, but are too polite to deny him a greeting and shake hands with Hux too, albeit with distinct wariness.

“Please, have a seat,” says the man, Parviz, gesturing at the sofas near the tall windows overlooking the Hudson valley. They are both in their late thirties or early forties, and share the same striking family features: the proud Persian profile, expressive dark eyes, smooth olive skin.

Before Ben or Hux can say anything, Farzaneh, the woman, says: “You must understand, Dr Solo, that we agreed to see you not because of the Senator, but because of your work here. I’m the medical director in our Foundation. And I asked about you when we got the Senator’s call. You have managed to establish an impressive reputation among our personnel.”

Ben blinks in surprise. “Oh. I, um, I was very happy to work with them. You have an excellent team here. You do wonderful work.”

“We do,” says Parviz. “And First Order intends to take over, dismantle us, and sell the parts to the highest bidders, if we understand rightly?” Looking at Hux straight in the eye.

Who coughs and manages to utter: “Yes. That’s basically the plan.”

“You work for First Order, Mr Hux.” Not a question.

“Yes.”

Parviz tilts his head. “So, if I may ask, what are you doing here?”

“Ah.” Hux leans back slightly in his seat. “Good question. I do understand that this is an – unusual situation.”

Farzaneh smiles slightly. A sharp smile – this is clearly not a woman to cross. “Please, Mr Hux. We have all day.”

***

It does take them all day. By the time they are finished – after finally persuading the Hosnians, then discussing and planning for hours, over lunch in the half-empty hospital canteen and well into the evening – the stars are coming into sight in the dusk.

“They are ruthless, those two,” mutters an exhausted Hux, as they walk towards the car.

“High praise, coming from you,” smiles Ben. “They have to be. They are up against very powerful enemies with what they are trying to do. And they come from a family of survivors.”

“Snoke called them ‘bleeding-heart liberals’,” snorts Hux. “I don’t think he realised whose heart was going to do the bleeding.”

Before they reach the car, Hux places his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Ben. Thank you for doing this. I know it can’t have been easy, calling your mother and…”

Ben covers Hux’s hand with his, making a dismissive gesture with the other. “Helping these people is well worth putting up with some family shit.” And thinks, but doesn’t say, _And I would do anything to get you out of Snoke’s filthy paws._ “Had I known that all it took was making a call to Farzaneh and introducing myself, though…” he mutters, running a stressed hand through his hair.

Hux laughs as they duck into the back seat.


	12. Chapter 12

“You live in the Upper West Side, right?” says Ben as the car starts. “You should let the driver know.”

Hux nods, and taps on the partition to give the driver his address. It makes sense to drop him first – it’s on the way, after all. And tries to ignore the small pang of disappointment.

But when they get there, Ben steps out of the car with him, and tells the driver to wait, they’ll be back in ten minutes.

“What are you…?”

“I’m helping you pack. You’re moving in with me for as long as this lasts.”

“ _What_? Ben, I’m a grownup, I don’t need…”

Ben grabs him by the shoulder, looking utterly serious. “Armitage, you are going to be essentially a spy in First Order for the next month or so. It’s going to be extremely hard on you. I’m not going to let you go through this on your own – I want to be there when you come back every evening.” He frowns, cutting Hux’s imminent protest short. “This is not negotiable.”

Hux crosses his arms. “Is this because of what happened last night?”

Ben runs his fingers through his hair, huffing. “You have a traumatic history. Certain things trigger you, and _understandably so._ And combining that with working under Snoke, and with having a conscience, has led to some – crossed wires. Hence your reaction. But anyone – _anyone_ – would go off the rocker if they had to be in close proximity to that – monster for any period of time.” He sighs. “I did.”

Hux stares at him. “Tell me.”

“Later, I promise. The driver will be back in ten minutes. You need to pack your stuff. I’ll lend you a hand if you like.”

Hux blinks. Then: “All right.”

***

Hux’s tastes run more towards the darker side of the spectrum, is the first thing Ben notices – darker wood, darker, deeper colours. It’s a much smaller flat than his, with smaller windows and lower ceilings, yet the effect is not claustrophobic. Rather, it’s warm, cosy, enclosed – almost like a burrow, or a den. A refuge.

He follows Hux as he moves efficiently through his study, picking up his laptop, downloading whatever it is he needs onto a drive, gathering documents. The room is equipped with cutting-edge tech, and yet the shelves on the walls are full of books, many of them clearly vintage editions. He moves up closer to take a look at the titles, and yes, many of them are economics and business texts. But most of the books, to his surprise, have nothing to do with finance. History. Essays. Literary classics. Poetry. He takes out a tome – a first edition of Robert Graves’s _Good-Bye to All That_. 

He looks up, and realises that Hux is staring at him, red-faced. As if Ben had seen a shameful secret.

He puts the book back on the shelf and says nothing.

Then waits outside the bedroom as Hux goes through through his wardrobe, out of a belated sense of delicacy. Through the open door, though, he can glimpse the large bed, with its dark headboard and white pillows against the wine-dark bedspread.

“I’ve packed for a couple of weeks,” says Hux, lugging out a medium-sized suitcase and a sports bag in addition to his laptop bag. “I suppose I’m allowed to come and pick up more clothes if I need them?”

“I have a washing machine,” replies Ben, dryly, but smiles.

***

Hux hesitates as they walk into the hallway of Ben’s apartment. “Can I sleep in the guest room?” he asks.

Ben looks at him, head tilted. “You can sleep wherever you like, Armitage,” he replies, gently. He sees how Hux swallows – in relief, in upheld pride, in regret?

It’s late, and they’re both tired. Ben rustles up some leftovers for dinner – some bread, cheese, cold meats, a couple of tomatoes, some olives – while Hux unpacks in his room. He can’t pretend he wouldn’t have preferred to have Hux physically close to him, in his bed. But he understands his need for privacy, to be by himself, at least for a while. Last night was emotionally draining, for both of them, and now Hux is being forced out of his own safe space to live in someone else’s home. If there’s something Hux doesn’t need right now, it's Ben ignoring his boundaries.

“So,” asks Hux, as he settles on one of the counter stools and helps himself. “You were telling me about you and Snoke.”

Ben lowers his gaze – he had hoped Hux had forgotten about it. But Hux, he is starting to suspect, _never_ misses anything. “I told you I used to be the in-house psychologist at First Order.”

“Yes.”

“Well. I joined the company in the understanding that I would be working to support the workers’ mental health. Finance is an extremely high-pressure environment – as you know perfectly well – and I thought I would be helping the employees deal with their stress and anxiety. Which, consequently, would result in better performance and better results for the company. But to me, as a professional, that was a secondary matter. My only concern is my patients’ wellbeing. Always.”

Hux chops a tomato and spears one of the resulting slices. “I think I can see where this is going,” he mutters.

“I imagine you can. So at one point I was working with a trader who was thinking of changing careers. It was all perfectly above board, he wasn’t going to take all his clients with him or anything – he didn’t even want to stay in finance, for fuck’s sake. He wasn’t in good health, so he wanted to retrain as a web designer and spend more time with his children. He was hardly seeing them.” He takes a deep breath. “Anyway. Snoke got wind of this. And he started pressuring me to keep this man from leaving – apparently, he was too valuable to the company, he brought in lots of cash, so he couldn’t be allowed to leave. And of course Snoke was persuaded that he was only leaving to join his competitors, or to start his own company. He is actually incapable of conceiving that anyone could ever think, or want, different things from him.”

“I told him that my duty was towards my patient, not towards him. And that people’s wishes should be respected. This man wanted to leave the company, and he wasn’t going to be happy, or work well, if he was forced to stay. And I wasn’t going to take advantage of what I knew about him and his psychological makeup to make him do something he didn’t want.”

“So Snoke broke into my patient’s files. Which, it should go without saying, are _confidential_. And he used that information to manipulate him. My patient had been very poor as a child, and the thing he cared most about in the world was his children’s happiness. He adored his children. And Snoke twisted that to persuade my patient that he _needed_ to stay at First Order and work his ass off so that he could adequately provide for his children. Scaring him shitless that he would be unable to pay for a private school, and for university, and his children were so smart and needed to make the right connections in the right places, and was he really going to ruin their future like that –" Ben’s face is dark with fury now. “Snoke is incredibly good at using your own fears against you.”

“So what happened?” urges Hux, almost afraid to ask.

“I was going to resign anyway. But then I found that Snoke had broken into my computer, and went to see him to – _resign_ in the most utterly unpleasant way possible. I told him I was reporting him.” He smiles grimly. “He keeps a riding crop in his desk. But you know that, don’t you?”

Hux swallows. Nods.

“Anyway. To cut a long story short, let’s just say that Snoke’s office had to be entirely refurnished the next day. But when I got home that evening, there was someone waiting in the staircase.” He points at his eye. “I think the intention was to gouge it out. Luckily, I saw him in time. Still, it left a pretty nasty scar.” He sees Hux’s perplexity. “I got it lasered off. I wasn’t willing to look at a reminder of Snoke in the mirror every morning.”

“And he left you alone after that?”

Ben looks at his plate, which he has hardly touched. “Yes. I suspect – I suspect my mother had something to do with that. I never told her about what happened, but she hated it when I joined First Order – she knew about Snoke and his reputation – and she must have asked people to keep an eye on me. I think someone must have told Snoke that getting rid of Senator Organa’s son, however much we were estranged, just wasn’t worth the risk. And I couldn’t report him. He got rid of the evidence quickly enough. I was never attacked again, in any case.”

“And your patient?”

Ben is silent for a long moment. “He stayed on. And Snoke immediately worked him into the ground, I think mainly out of vindictiveness. My patient had a stroke. He was forty-five. He survived, but had lifelong sequelae, and Snoke found a way to get rid of him with hardly any benefits.” He looks away. “His family could no longer afford to live in New York after that. I lost track of them.”

“Christ. Ben.”

Ben takes a deep breath, looks at Hux again. “So that’s why I’m not going to take any risks with you, Armitage.”

***

They are standing the corridor, later, after clearing up and brushing their teeth. Slightly awkward.

“Well…”

“Well…”

Simultaneously. They smile.

Ben stretches out his hand, lightly rubs Hux’s forearm. “Sleep well. If you need anything, you know where I am.”

Hux looks down at Ben’s hand, covers it with his own. Then draws close to him and gently kisses him on the lips. Then smiles slightly and goes into his room. Closing the door behind him.

Ben stares at the shut door for a second. Then goes into his own room, shuts the door, and tries to ignore his stirring cock.

***

For the next week or so, Hux leaves early in the morning, imperious in his black and charcoal suits, only to return pale and drawn in the evening, unwilling to say much about his day other than “Fine”. Ben glances at him out of the corner of his eye, watchful, concerned, yet aware that all he can do is follow Hux’s lead and wait.

Eventually, on Friday evening, Hux drops his suitcase in the living room and stands still, looking at Ben, who is going through some emails at the kitchen counter. When he sees the expression on Hux’s face, he immediately shuts the lid close.

“Armitage – what is it?”

“Ben – I –“ He looks down, then up again, straight at him. Quietly. “I need your help.”

Ben slides off the stool, closes up the distance between them. Touches his arm. “Anything, Armitage. What do you need?” Gently.

“I’ve been – pretending all these days. Playing the toady. Trying to please Snoke. I think I’ve succeeded. Very, very well.” He shuts his eyes tight. “God, I disgust myself.”

Ben rubs his arm. “What do you need?” he repeats.

Hux opens his eyes. Looks into his. Those pale, clear green eyes. “I – I need to feel that that’s not where I really belong. That _he_ doesn’t own me.” He shudders with such revulsion that Ben is certain that he’s not referring to Snoke only, even if he doesn't realise it.

“You belong to yourself, Armitage. You’re your own man.”

Hux looks down. “I don’t want to be my own man. I loathe myself.”

Ben places his knuckle under Hux’s chin, tilts it up, forcing him to look him the eye. “ _What do you need, Armitage?_ ” he asks again.

“Make me yours. I need to feel – that you are there. Not him. Please,” whispers Hux, his voice cracking. “ _Use me_.”

Ben takes a deep breath – in relief, in arousal, in preparation. Steadying himself. Then smiles slightly and brings Hux close to him, placing his face in the hollow of his neck. Taking his smell, his warmth, in.

“Of course.”


	13. Chapter 13

“ _Use me_ ,” begs Hux.

Ben takes him gently by the nape and brings his face into the hollow of his own neck, breathing in his smell. Then grabs him by the hair, tight enough to force Hux to tilt his head back and look him in the eye.

“Go into my bedroom”, he says softly. “Strip and lie on my bed. Hands over your head, on the pillows. Close your eyes. You do yoga. Have you done pranayama, breathwork?”

Hux nods mutely.

“Good. Then focus on your breath – diaphragmatic breathing. Focus on making your exhales as long as your inhales. I’ll be with you shortly.”

And pats Hux on the bottom as he turns away. Then, when the other man is gone, he goes to the fridge and pours himself a glass of water with ice, making enough noise for Hux to hear him from the bedroom. Reassuring him that he’s there, but keeping him waiting for a short while. It’s a way of establishing control, of course – it’s he who decides what he will to do Hux, and when. But he also needs to think a bit, first.

 _Control._ Hux said clearly that that’s what he needs, mainly. And he seems to expect control to come through pain, mainly. Which Ben has no problems whatsoever with, of course. But he doesn’t want to counter the – mental, emotional, and, he strongly suspects, also physical – pain that Snoke is inflicting on Hux that way today.

He takes a long, cold drink, then places the glass in the sink and goes to take care of Hux.

***

He’s lying stretched on the dark coverlet, naked, eyes closed, gripping one wrist with the other hand, and breathing deeply, so that his belly rises and falls visibly. When he exhales, the skin on his torso tautens like a drum, and Ben can see the outline of his ribcage, his slender hips. He’s not remotely relaxed – he’s far too tense, still – but he’s lying there, open, vulnerable, utterly trusting.

 _He’s so beautiful,_ thinks Ben, stricken by the sight. And moves closer to the bed.

Hux’s breath immediately hitches, and he raises his head slightly towards Ben, but doesn’t open his eyes. He drops his head back onto the bed, but it’s obvious where all of his attention is as Ben quickly undresses.

“Good boy,” he says in a low voice, and Hux shudders. He climbs onto the bed on all fours, hands and knees on either side of Hux’s body, like a huge predator, until he is face to face with Hux, so close that he can breathe in his exhalations. Eyes always closed, Hux raises his face to him, pleadingly, moaning softly without realising.

“So good for me.” And he dips his mouth to the hollow of Hux’s neck, to his beating pulse, biting gently. Immediately, Hux turns his head aside and slightly up, exposing his neck, baring it – making himself vulnerable in submission, like a wolf to its alpha. Ben becomes so hard, instantly, that it’s almost painful.

He bites harder, eliciting a cry from Hux and leaving the mark on his teeth on his neck – a ring of red indentations on the pale skin, that flushes vividly as the blood floods in. Beautiful, thinks Ben again, and this time he says it out loud, and Hux flushes even deeper, to his utter delight.

He kisses Hux deeply, and, as the flushing man melts into the kiss, slides his hands down along his long torso, caressing it, feeling the curving ribcage, the soft belly as it rises and falls, the narrow waist. Hux emerges from the kiss like a drowning man, overwhelmed by the sensations, from the unfamiliar caresses, the gentleness. The intensely possessive desire with which Ben’s hands roam across his skin.

“Look at me.”

Hux’s eyes, as they look up into Ben’s, look huge, dilated. Lost.

“What are you?” he asks.

And Hux whispers: “Yours.”

Ben nods. “That’s right. And I get to decide how I use you. What you need. What you deserve. Don’t I?”

Hux can only nod. Ben grabs him by the chin. “What was that?”

“ _Yessir._ ”

Ben stretches his arm to pick up a dispenser of water-based lube from the ledge-like nightstand that runs along the top of his bed, doubling as the headboard, pumps some of the transparent goo onto the palm of his other hand.

“You’re not touching yourself tonight. At all. Understood?”

Another nod. Quickly corrected: “Yes, sir.” And Hux plants the backs of his hands more firmly against the pillows, as if his invisible, self-imposed manacles had been suddenly tightened.

Then Ben slides slightly down, and his lubed hand comes down, too, brushing teasingly past Hux’s erect cock but not stopping there – rather, it slides down the swell of Hux’s inner thigh and prises its way to his testicles, his perineum, and, eventually, the puckered, tight anus.

Hux gasps, flushing even more furiously, as Ben massages the cool fluid onto the delicate, hypersensitive skin. Then his breath is cut off when Ben slides one slimy finger around the rim of his anus, caressing and softening it.

“I’m going to take you, boy,” growls Ben, biting down on Hux’s pulse again. He pulls back slightly to see his reaction, ready to pull back if Hux is not ready for this. And is shaken by the utter naked _need_ in Hux’s eyes when he looks up at him. He has to swallow to get a hold on himself again.

He elbows his way down Hux’s body again, coming to kneel between his feet. He takes Hux’s bent knees and places them on his own shoulders. Then leans forward, and brings his mouth to Hux’s anus.

Hux cries out. “ _What…?”_

Ben pinches the inside of his thigh, painfully. “ _Quiet, boy._ You are going to take it.”

All Hux can do is moan in reply, in pain, overwhelmed, and dig his fingers frantically into the pillows as he tries to hold still.

“Relax,” says Ben, more gently, feeling Hux’s body tense like a coiled spring. He licks the orifice, lapping at it, teasing the rim with his tongue. “So good, Armitage. You’re such a good boy. I’m going to make you feel exactly what you deserve.”

Gradually, Hux’s grip relaxes, and Ben can feel how his taut muscles sink down again onto the softness of the bed, his hips loosening again under his hands, his thighs splaying open again. “Good boy,” he purrs, warm breath against the tender, softening entrance, and smiles at Hux’s groan.

He looks up – Hux’s cock is now almost purple, furiously upright, glistening with leaking pre-come. He feels the urge to swallow it, feel its delicious girth in his mouth, suck Hux into helpless orgasm – but that’s for another day. Today, he wants to make Hux feel entirely _taken,_ entirely _possessed._

He pulls away from Hux’s anus, mouth and chin sticky with lube and his own saliva, and easily slides a finger in, then two. Three. Hux’s hips jerk violently upwards, seeking non-existent friction. His face is contorted with desperation.

 _“_ Please _,”_ he begs. “ _Please. Master._ ”

The word sends him over the edge. He grips Hux’s pumping hips so hard that his fingerprints will be visible tomorrow, pulls them towards him, and slides in in one fluid thrust. Taking possession of him. _Penetrating him._

They both cry out. And continue to cry – Hux an inarticulate litany of helplessness as the pleasure overwhelms him and he goes down in an ecstatic, crashing wave; Ben as the burning heat rushes forth like an eruption and he can’t hold it back, and he comes and comes and comes, with a wild, blind roar.

At some point he collapses down onto Hux’s body, equally panting and sweaty. When he opens his eyes again, Hux is looking at him, at his face, through half-mast eyelids, a blissed-out smile on his face. Still half out of it.

A hot rush of tenderness floods over Ben. “Thank you,” he whispers, stroking Hux’s cheek.

Hux blinks slowly. Smiles dopily again, nuzzling against Ben’s hand. “I love you.”

Ben knows this is the subspace speaking, that Hux is still on a high, that he’s emotionally open and vulnerable and out of it, that this is an extremely delicate moment and he should be careful. And yet, when he kisses Hux softly on the mouth and wraps his arms around him and holds him, he answers: “I love you too.”

And he is telling the truth.

***

During the weekend, Ben makes a point of doing the sort of things ‘normal’ couples do: they have brunch at the Australian place – Hux has grown fond of the folded eggs –, go to the cinema, browse bookshops and inevitably come back laden with far more books than they had intended. They don’t mention last night, or the words that were said, although Ben is certain that Hux, despite still being in subspace then, remembers it – he catches his look in the cinema, when a character says them.

They are back in Ben’s flat, with the bookshop bags on the coffee table, going through the day’s haul. “I hadn’t taken you for such a reader, if I’m honest,” says Ben.

“Because we MBAs are all philistines, are we?” smiles Hux, who is reading again the blurb of one of his picks. And realises that Ben is not only referring to today’s book expedition. He looks up, then down again, a slight blush spreading across his face.

“You’re extremely well-read,” says Ben. “It’s fairly unusual. At least among people who don’t work in academia. Or the arts.”

“Finance was not my first choice.” Hux has not lifted his eyes again. He takes another book, pretends to read through the blurb again.

 _Why aren’t I surprised?_ “Your father forced you to go into business.” It’s not a question.

Hux nods, still averting his gaze. “It was that or the military.” 

“What would you have rather done?”

At that, Hux does look up. And suddenly looks as exposed as he was last night, naked and splayed on his bed. Even more so, perhaps. Ben expects him to avoid the question, but, surprisingly, he answers, softly, as he blushes. “I always wanted to write.”

Now it is Ben who feels the need to look away, overcome by Hux’s raw openness, but forces himself to hold Hux’s gaze, to listen to him. “You can still do it,” he says. “Can’t see why not.” Which is true.

Hux snorts in self-derision. “I have nothing to say.”

“Oh, I think you have plenty to say, Armitage. And a first-rate mind to articulate it.”

Hux looks away again, with an embarrassed smile. “You do realise you are the only one who calls me that,” he mutters.

“What? Armitage? But that’s your name.” Ben goes along with the change of topic. But he has taken note, of everything. “What did people call you, when you were a kid?”

“Hux, in school and in the academy. At home, mostly _you._ ”

 _And what did your mother call you?_ Ben thinks, but does not ask. Their conversation has been intense enough for the weekend already. “I like Armitage.”

“It’s an awkward name. Sounds like a Russian museum.” Hux smiles. “I like it when you say it, though.”


	14. Chapter 14

After the weekend, Ben makes a point of being home when Hux returns from work, ready to provide him with a soft place to land in – or a hard one, depending on what he needs. They develop, without discussing it, a sort of ritual: as soon as Hux sets foot in the apartment, he puts his laptop bag down, takes off all his clothes, tidily – Hux being Hux – puts everything away in the guest bedroom, and approaches Ben. Who usually asks him to kneel before him and tell him about his day. It’s visible, how Hux decompresses the minute he drops his laptop, how the expression on his face softens and relaxes as he strips, removing layer after layer of the stark dark uniform he wears every day like a suit of armour. It’s as if he _breathes_ for the first time in the day.

But that evening, Hux remains strangely distant and aloof as he pads naked towards Ben where he is sitting on the sofa. His gait is oddly stiff, even.

“Hey,” Ben greets him with a soft smile.

Hux makes an obvious effort to smile back. “Hey.” He waits for Ben’s gesture, expecting to kneel, as usual, but this time Ben points at his lap. There’s something _not good_ going on, and he wants Hux to feel physically supported.To feel him _there_. Hux climbs onto his knees with the same rigidity, as if avoiding something.

And then Ben slides his hand up Hux’s back in a caress, and Hux can’t help wincing and flinching. And Ben realises. He gently turns Hux slightly to the side, so he can see at least part of his back.

Which is crisscrossed with long, red strokes. A riding crop.

Ben can feel his own face darken with fury, his muscles bulge wildly with the urge to hurt, to destroy, to _kill_ as he hadn’t felt for many, many years.

“It’s all right, Ben,” says Hux hurriedly, seeing the surge of wrath in Ben’s eyes. “It’s not a bad as it looks.”

“What happened?”

“Honestly, Ben. It was quick. Just a few strokes. It’s not a big deal. I’ve had much worse.”

“ _What. Happened?_ ”

Hux takes a deep breath. “Farhad got in touch, finally. And Snoke swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. He summoned me to tell me about it. To gloat. Asked me why I hadn’t thought of it.”

“And then he punished you.”

Hux nods. “You know what it’s like with him,” he mutters. “It’s just an excuse. He just wanted a reason to…”

“Yes. I know.” Ben is breathing deeply too, trying to get a grip on himself, which is belied by how white his knuckles have gone as he holds onto Hux’s waist. He realises, then, that he must be hurting Hux – hurting him _more –_ and lets go of him as if scalded.

Hux places his hand on Ben’s shoulder: “Ben – it’s all right. We knew this would happen. This was the plan.”

“Yes. Excuse me.” Not all that gracefully, he gets up without warning, tilting Hux off his lap and onto the floor, and hurries to the bathroom, ignoring Hux as he calls out his name in concern after him.

He locks himself in the bathroom, opens the inbuilt cabinet, and takes out the big packet of 48 toilet paper rolls which he keeps there. Then proceeds, quietly and systematically, with a focused fury, to tear the shit out of them.

He rips through it, tissue and cardboard rolls with his bare hands, with his teeth even at some point, biting and pulling and tearing and throwing against the wall in a frenzy of wreckage, of pure, unbridled destruction. At the end, he finds himself knee-deep in a sea of white tatters, panting heavily as he catches his breath.

His name. They’re shouting his name.

Hux. Rapping frantically on the door, shouting his head off in fright and worry. “BEN! OPEN THE DOOR THIS VERY INSTANT!”

And then the thud, the kick, not quite shattering the lock but making the wood around it splinter. “BEN!!!”

Ben opens the door – he has to shake the knob slightly because it’s almost ruined, and takes note that they’ll have to replace it – to find the very naked Hux far, far paler than he has ever seen him.

“Ben, are you all right, what…?” As he looks at Ben, checking that he is unharmed and well, Hux’s face morphs from terror to extreme anger, and Ben understands for the first time why his subordinates at work call Hux the General. “What the…?” Then stares at Ben stonily.

And slaps him. Hard.

“ _Don’t you ever do that again. EVER._ ”

Dumbfounded, Ben brings his hand to his face where Hux has slapped him, and nods mutely. “I’m sorry, Armitage, I…”

“What the _fuck_ were you…?” starts to say Hux, then walks into the wrecked bathroom. And is shocked to a standstill.

“I… I had to take it out on something. Somehow,” says Ben. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ “It was all I could think of. It was that or run out and rip Snoke’s head off.”

Hux is silent for a long minute. Then: “It looks as if a mummy exploded,” he mutters. Suppressing a smile. Ben smiles hugely in relief.

Hux looks up at him, serious again. “You frightened me.” Quietly.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Ben draws Hux towards him, pulls him into a close embrace. “I’m sorry, Armitage. It won’t happen again.”

“I know,” comes Hux’s voice, muffled against his chest. “I’m buying you a punching bag.”

***

Later, Hux is lying face down on the bed in the master bedroom, while Ben carefully dabs at his weals with antibacterial gel. He starts to shake, and Ben looks up, concerned – is he hurting him, is he all right…?

But Hux has buried his face in a pillow. He’s shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Master of the Rolls. _The toilet paper rolls,_ ” he guffaws, and shakes again at the extreme silliness of it.

Ben smiles, slightly embarrassed. “Eh. Yes. If the Knights of Ren only knew…”

 _“_ The _what?_ ” Hux has sharply turned around and back and is staring at him with piercing eyes. “The Knights of _what?”_

 _Fuck._ “Ah… Yeah. Well. It’s a group of people, in the club. They sort of - like what I do as Master Ren…”

A huge, wicked grin spreads across Hux’s face. “A fan club. You have _groupies._ Master Ren has _groupies._ ”

“Not _groupies_ , for fuck’s sake, Armitage.” Ben rubs his hand across his face, mortified. “Just – like-minded people.” He groans in embarrassment. “Oh god. I’m supposed to be the dominant here, you know.”

“I know, _Master Ren._ ” Hux looks positively delighted. “By the way, where does that come from? ‘Ren’?”

“Well, it’s not terribly imaginative,” says Ben, relieved at being able to change topic, more or less. “Ben with an R.”

“Right. So you just swap a letter in your first name when you are going to top. Handy, that. Like an ‘Occupied’ sign.”

“No, it’s not a first name, it’s – “

“What?”

 _Fucking logorrhoea,_ thinks Ben, kicking himself mentally. _He’s going to find out sooner or later, anyway. Better get it out of the way._ “Kylo Ren. The full name is Kylo Ren.”

Hux ponders it for a moment. “Kylo. Kylo Ren. _Master Kylo Ren._ ” Then smiles again. “Where did you get that from? Sounds like something from a stripper name meme.” He laughs, then sees the look on Ben’s face. “ _It is._ You got it from a stripper name meme.” He pauses. “Wait, wait. Then – you named yourself after _your dog_?”

And, despite the injuries on his back, despite the pain and stiffness in his joints, despite the terrible fear and fury he has just experienced, Hux turns on his back and rolls around the bed, laughing and laughing.

“It was that or ‘Chewie’, okay?” mutters Ben, as his face turns even redder.

***

They are spooning in bed, even later, when Hux turns his face towards Ben and asks: “Are you going to introduce me, sometime? To the – Knights?”

Ben looks down with a certain perplexity. “Would you like me to? I thought you…”

Hux blushes slightly. “I was being silly. I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to mock you or, or – what you do, the people you do it with. I’m just – curious. Interested.” He brings his lips down to kiss Ben’s thumb. “It’s an important part of who you are, after all.”

Ben hums in response. “If you’d like to, of course.” He is silent for a moment, thinking. Then asks: “Is there anything else you – think about?”

“You mean, about – “

“Yes.”

Hux is quiet for a long time. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

Hux closes his eyes and allows himself to sink into Ben’s arms, Ben’s dominance. “I think of you taking me to the club. As Master Ren. To – to display me.”

“Hmm. So that everyone would see. My beautiful, obedient boy. And _all mine._ ”

Ben’s hand has slid between Hux’s legs, and Hux groans at the pressing warmth against his crotch, Ben’s breath at his neck. His quiet, enveloping words.

“Would you like people to see, hmm? How I use you. Your exposed, naked, beautiful body? How you _serve_ me? Would you like my Knights to see that, Armitage?” Ben leans even closer, and the words now burn straight into Hux’s mind, like firebrands. “Or perhaps I might lend you out. Let them use you. I could order you to please them, and you would, only because that would please me. And you are mine to do with as I please. _Aren’t you_?”

“Yes. _Yessir._ ” Breathless.

“Oh, but don’t worry, pet. I don’t share. Not really. I would just let them – _play_ with you. Like a toy. While I looked on. While _everybody_ looked on.” Ben smiles against Hux’s neck as he feels the other man’s cock hardening in his hand. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You filthy thing.”

Hux only moans in reply, tilting his hips, rubbing his cock against Ben’s hand, his bottom against Ben’s cock, which is straining painfully. “Tell me, Armitage,” he whispers, urgently. “What else? What else do you want?”

Only an inarticulate cry in reply. Ben tightens his hand around Hux’s waist. “ _Tell me, boy._ ”

“I – I – “ Almost weeping. “I want to please you, sir. To serve you. Any way you want. _So badly_.”

The sudden pressure in Ben’s chest, in his core, is unbearable and burning. He’s never wanted anyone so much in his life. And nobody has shaken him to the core like this, here, now. “That’s right.” He bites down on the words, unsure of whether he'll be able to even speak. “Because you’re _mine. And you will.”_ He tightens his grip around Hux. “ _Come_.”

And bites down on the spot on his neck that Hux had offered in submission, as their bodies tense and release in unison, twinned drawn bows suddenly let loose.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - as you will all understand, it's a difficult time. Hope everybody's well (or as well as possible, given the circumstances). 
> 
> The chapter is mostly talk today - to advance the plot and because these people really do talk a lot. :) 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading and commenting. You make it worth it, and it means the world to me. 
> 
> Take care.

“So let me get this straight. Snoke is trying to get rid of a healthcare NGO because he thinks that they are ruining the medical insurance market. And a cousin of the people who run the NGO has offered to have them killed, with Snoke’s support, because he resents that their company is not run by his side of the family. And then he’ll sell the NGO to Snoke, who will of course run it into the ground. Only it’s a false murder attempt that you have set up, and the cousin is in on it. Because you want to incriminate Snoke and get rid of him. And you are worried that Snoke will somehow try to get me involved. And he has already threatened Hux with doing something horrible to Dopheld and me. Did I miss anything?”

Phasma leans back in her seat and coolly gazes at Hux and Ben, who are sitting on the sofa across from her in Ben’s living room. Ben props his cheek on his hand, and with a half-smile answers: “Well, to be honest, we also wanted to gauge what your reaction would be.”

Phasma raises an eyebrow. “Afraid that I would give you away?”

“Not really. But this is, to all purposes, a coup. And you are ex-military. I know how you feel about the chain of command.”

Phasma tilts her head back with a scornful huff. “Snoke is a prick. And, from what you are telling me, a murderous prick. I do respect hierarchies. But only when those at the top duly respect the ones who are keeping them up there. And when they are not criminals. And I have a good idea of what’s been going on with you and Snoke, Hux.” She looks at him shrewdly. “I did wonder whether you put up with it for careerist reasons.”

Hux flushes with a mixture of anger and shame. “God, Phasma! I’m ambitious, but I wouldn’t sink to…”

She shrugs. “I’ve watched you self-destroy for as long as you’ve been here, Hux. I thought that might be another form of self-harm disguised as ambition. Glad that’s not the case. You seem to be making better choices.” And smiles at Ben.

“Yes. Well,” coughs Hux. “We also needed to ask you about the security measures. We have already spoken to the FBI. They can’t do anything unless they have evidence. We need to get a record of Snoke incriminating himself.”

Phasma shakes her head. “Not going to happen. He obviously won’t put anything in writing. And the security system in his office will detect any recording devices or wires. I should know.” She looks at them straight in the eye. “You’ll have to get him out of his office and make him say it there. Preferably with the FBI listening in.”

Hux looks stricken. “I’ve _never_ seen Snoke outside his office. He lives in a set of rooms attached to it. And he leaves the building very rarely. He says he doesn’t need to go out into the world to know what’s going on. Or to control it.”

“Like a spider in its web,” mutters Ben. “Listening for the twitches of caught flies.”

“Well then,” says Phasma brightly. “You’ll have to lure him out, won’t you?”

***

“Farhad has an idea,” says Ben to Hux, a few days later. He’s the one who keeps in touch with the Hosnians using a burner phone, because they know that Snoke probably monitors all of Hux’s communications. “One of Parviz and Farzaneh’s sisters is getting married in a few weeks’ time. It’s a traditional wedding, a big deal – there’ll be about 500 guests or so. And the family will be inviting their business associates. Farhad wants to tell Snoke that he got him invited to the wedding – it’s not such a stretch, he’s in the industry, and it would be a sort of olive branch. And Snoke will find the idea of watching the Hosnians get killed irresistible.”

“He will,” Hux runs his fingers through his hair, stressed. “How is Farhad supposed to, erm, do it?”

“He hasn’t got to that point yet. He’s meeting with Snoke soon to discuss it. In whatever wily, twisty, utterly deniable way he discusses it. Farhad will let us know when it happens. And Parviz and Farzaneh, of course.”

“That’s going to be an interesting conversation,” says Hux drily. “Going over the way in which your cousin is planning to kill you.”

Ben smiles and moves towards the kitchen counter. “Tea?” He’s not-so-subtly trying to get Hux’s caffeine intake down, which amuses Hux, who nods. “So. About the other night.”

Hux looks up, immediately tensing up. “ _That_ night?”

Ben nods. “Can we talk about it?”

Hux sighs. “Can’t say I’m dying to. But you’re like a boomerang about this sort of thing. If I say not now, you’ll just keep circling back.”

Ben grins and leaves the two mugs to steep on the counter. “Do you have any thoughts about what happened?”

Hux looks down at his hands. The traces of the scratches down his forearms are still visible at the edge of his shirt cuffs. “Not really. I… I hadn’t done that since school.”

“Harming yourself?”

Hux nods. “Last time it happened, I was in the academy. I never seriously intended to, you know, top myself or anything like that. But there were a couple of times when I really, really couldn’t stand myself. Being myself. It was a sort of – fury. Desperation. I was trying to _claw_ my way out of myself, quite literally.” He runs finger lightly over the reddish marks on his wrists. “I pretended I had got them falling during the morning run. The ones on my face and neck were harder to explain. But nobody really questioned it.”

 _No, I bet they didn’t._ “So how did it stop?”

“I went to Oxford to do PPE – that’s Philosophy, Politics, and Economics. The standard degree for posh people who are going into business later. It was pretty demanding – one of my tutors in particular, Dr Sloane – I found myself working my arse off because she seemed to expect it of me. That kept me busy throughout the three years of the degree – and it kept me out of myself, out of my head, if that makes any sense.”

“You didn’t want to disappoint your tutor.”

“No. And – she seemed to have this idea of me. Of who I could be.” Hux’s voice grows softer. “I had never thought of myself… quite like that. I liked the way she saw me. I wanted to live up to it.”

“And it worked.”

A furtively proud smile. “Of course it worked. I got a First.”

Ben fishes out the teabags from the mugs and pours some milk and stevia. (Hux, he has noticed, is meticulous about his calorie intake.) He hands Hux his mug as he sits by his side. “So what was she like, this Dr Sloane?”

“Terrifying.” But he is smiling fondly. He looks up to see Ben’s intent expression. “Look, I’m not stupid. I get it.”

“What do you get?”

“I – work best as a subordinate. Under an authority figure. Someone who will boss me around. And if the authority figure turns not to be trustworthy – _or a murderous psychopath –_ I freak out. Because I derive my self-image from them.” He looks down at his tea, which he has not touched. “It’s pathetic, really,” he mutters.

Ben sits back on the sofa and sips at his tea. “That’s not how I see it.”

“No?” Hux glances at him sideways. “So how do you see it, pray?”

“We all get our self-image from other people. Children aren’t born with an idea of themselves – they learn to think about themselves from the way in which other people, mainly their parents, treat them and talk about them. Of course, at one point you become your own person – or at least that’s the goal, many people can’t ever be bothered to become independent because it’s hard work. But, unless there’s something very wrong with you, the way in which other people treat you still has an impact on the way in which you feel about yourself. Ultimately, we all want to be liked. To be wanted. Loved.”

Hux has blushed slightly. “I don’t think I ever sought love from Dr Sloane. Or from Snoke.”

“No. But you wanted recognition. Which can be a very powerful desire. And completely understandable, in your case. Your father treated you like shit all your life. When someone saw you as worthy, you leapt at the chance. Because of course it made you feel good to be that person.”

“But – I can’t live like that. I can’t be the person other people expect me to be.”

“No. If you were the person Snoke wants you to be, you wouldn’t have _freaked out,_ as you put it, when he ordered you to do things that you saw as very, very wrong. You are not Snoke’s dog, Armitage,” says Ben softly. “As I said, you are your own man.”

“I still want recognition,” says Hux, fiercely. “It matters to me.”

“Of course. From the right people. And only _you_ get to decide whose respect, whose recognition, matters to you.”

Hux finally takes a long swallow of tea, as if to steady himself. “And – the other part? What happened later?”

 _Ah._ “What about it?”

“You tied me down – no, _I allowed you_ to put me in a straitjacket and hood me and tie me down to your bed all night long.”

“And?”

“How do you tally that with all you have just said about being my own person and having my own criteria and deciding what matters to me?”

Ben raises his eyebrows. “As you said, you allowed me to do that. How did it make you feel?”

Hux takes a deep breath. “Grounded. Protected. It calmed me down. It made me feel – _held._ Safe.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Isn’t there a contradiction? I can understand getting off on pain if that’s the way you are wired. But how can I be my own person if I – if I want you to treat me like a piece of shit? Like a _gimp_?”

“I never treat you like a piece of shit, Armitage,” says Ben, his voice low but very firm. “I treat you like _my property_.”

Hux’s breath catches, and his cock stirs, hearing Ben say that. He swallows. “That’s not being my own person.”

“No. That’s being _mine._ And it _is_ a contradiction – human beings are intrinsically contradictory. But it’s a different level. We don’t get to choose what turns us on, what or who arouses us, what or who we are attracted to. You are sexually submissive. That doesn’t make you submissive in the rest of your life.” Ben grins. “Not remotely. God knows.”

Hux drinks some more tea. “I thought I was past this, honestly. I’ve been going to sex clubs for years. I never had a problem with the sort of thing I like, until now. It’s – different, now.” He looks up at Ben. “Before you ask, it’s because it used to be purely physical. That’s easier to handle.”

Ben smiles lopsidedly. “It is.” And for a second, the ghost of the _I love yous_ they said to each other hovers unspoken between them. But Ben opts not to go there, not right now.

Hux finishes the tea and sets the empty mug on the coffee table. “Right. Well, after all this deep talk, I just have one more question.”

Ben raises an eyebrow.

“If I am your property, do I still get to tell you to fuck me hard up against the wall?”

Ben grins from ear to ear. “Perhaps. If you ask nicely.” And put his own mug down to reach for him.


	16. Chapter 16

He has been summoned. Again.

“Change of plans,” drawls Snoke, toying with his riding crop, which he no longer bothers to keep in his drawer in front of Hux. “I thought of a way of placing Farhad even more in our debt. And under our control.”

“Sir?” Hux stands in his by-now usual military stance, arms folded behind him, feet hip-wide. Expecting to have to withstand a blow any minute now.

And it duly comes. “Farhad is planning to fly someone over from Tehran to do the business. That way it would be blamed on old family feuds, or even on the Iranian regime – this government would be happy to buy that the evil ayatollahs still have it in for the Hosnians. However, this plan could go very wrong for Farhad if the… person in question is unreliable in any way, say. Or if they talk too much. So I made Farhad a – mutually beneficial proposal. Much better if we keep everything in-house, don’t you think? After all, the best way to ensure that something is done properly…” He looks malevolently at Hux. Who goes very pale.

_Is to do it yourself._

***

“He wants me to kill them. Me. Personally.” Hux’s hand trembles as he lifts the tumbler of whiskey Ben has just poured him. He downs it in one swig. “He’s insane.”

Ben is looking at him over steepled fingers. “Not insane. Evil,” he mutters. “It makes sense. That way he has both Farhad and you by the balls. He will be able to hold that over your heads for the rest of your life. Has he said how you are to do this?”

Hux cards his fingers through his hair, the old anxious tic coming back in force. “It’s up to me. He knows I have a military background of sorts. It has to be public, though. In full sight of everyone. He wants to make an example of the Hosnians.” He places the tumbler on the coffee table, almost smashing it as he startles when the doorbell rings.

“That’ll be Phasma,” says Ben. “I asked her to come over as soon as you called me after your meeting with Snoke. You sounded so shaken I thought we needed some serious help.” He gets up to open the door for Phasma. And someone else.

“Hi, Dopheld. We weren’t expecting you,” Ben greets him. “Thanks for coming.”

“I took the call in front of him,” explains Phasma to the horrified Hux. “And it wasn’t too hard to work out what was going on, knowing you and Snoke. He wouldn’t hear of not coming too.”

“Dopheld…” says Hux helplessly as the young man hurries over to his side.

“It’s all right, boss. We’re here now. Just – let us help.” Dopheld looks up at Phasma in adoration. “If there’s anyone who can help, it’s Nicole. She used to be an Army Ranger, you know.”

Hux looks up at the three of them, bewildered by the surrealness of it all. _My PA and Phasma, who is Dopheld’s dominant and a freaking former Ranger, want to help because my boss wants me to personally execute the fake assassination we had planned. How on earth did I get to this point?_

He feels a sudden, warm weight on his shoulder. Ben. “We’ll deal with it, Armitage.”

Hux places his hand on Ben’s larger, reassuring hand. And smiles, somewhat comforted. By him. By his friends.

***

“Ok. Talk soon then.” Ben ends the handsfree call, and all four of them look at each other in brief, tense silence.

“Well,” says Phasma, finally. “Seems like we have a plan then.”

***

That night, Hux waits in bed while Ben talks endlessly on the phone to his mother. She has a loud voice – he can hear her indignant sputtering when Ben comes closer to the door. Ben hardly speaks, but only makes small, low phatic noises, indicating that he is listening, or biting his tongue, or both. When he comes back to the bedroom, he looks exhausted.

“I love her, I really do,” he mumbles as he drops heavily to sit on the side of the bed. “But God, she’s hard work.”

Hux stretches out his hand to stroke his hair. “C’mere.”

Following the gentle tug of Hux’s hand, Ben allows himself to drop down, on his back, onto Hux’s lap. Where he continues to stroke Ben’s face.

“This isn’t right,” mutters Ben in protest. “ _I_ should be the one taking care of _you_.”

“You _are_ taking care of me already, you big clot. Don’t you get it?” And before Ben can reply, Hux leans forward, curving that formidably flexible spine of his, and kisses him deeply on the mouth. When he sits back again, Ben is dazed and soft, just as Hux intended.

“Hmm,” he hums, smug. “Putty in my hands.”

Ben grins. “Topping from the bottom, are we? Well, haven’t you recovered quickly?”

“Recovered from what?”

“You were so flustered by poor Dopheld turning up, I thought you were going to faint any minute.”

Hux leans back against the headboard, his back suddenly stiffly straight. “I was _not_ flustered by Mitaka.”

Ben turns around, propping his head on his hand. Still grinning with intense amusement. “Oh, you were, Armitage. You went beet-red when he came in. He threw you off.”

“ _I did not…_ ” And then, voice dropping in rueful admission: “I just wasn’t expecting him. And it’s so _fucking weird_ to find that my PA had been doing _that_ with my best friend all this time, under my nose, and I had _no idea…_ ” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mitaka is a supremely efficient assistant. And now, every time I look at him at work, I can’t help seeing him…”

Ben pushes himself up on his elbow, interested. “Seeing him how?”

“You know. Licking Nic’s boots. Because of course Phasma wears tall kinky boots, right?”

“She does,” smiles Ben. “And she looks fantastic in them. What else?”

“What else what?”

“What else do you imagine Dopheld doing?”

Hux grabs a pillow by his side and covers his face with it, muffling an exasperated cry. Still hiding behind his pillow, he groans: “ _It’s embarrassing._ ”

Ben rises onto all fours on the bed, and stretches his hand forward to remove the pillow. “I know. That’s why you’re going to say it.” He throws the pillow aside and crawls closer, placing one hand on either side of Hux’s head, so that he is caged within the confines of his body. “Tell me, Armitage.”

Hux looks up at Ben as he looms above him, feeling suddenly helpless. And hot. “I – think of him in leather. Straps, studs, that sort of thing. A, a – harness. A collar.”

“Hmm. A collar and a leash? Like a pet?” Hux nods, mutely. Ben lowers one hand to stroke Hux’s flank, raising goosebumps in its trail. “What else?”

Hux is so aroused that he doesn’t know how he can still function. “A muzzle,” he answers, so breathless he's almost inaudible.

Ben smiles – a sharp, knowing smile. “A muzzle? On poor Dopheld? Poor, sweet, innocent Dopheld? No, Armitage.” He leans forward, bringing his mouth next to Hux’s ear. “It's _you_ who needs to be restrained. It's _you_ who needs to be collared and muzzled like the dog you are.”

The moan escapes Hux’s lips even before Ben brings his teeth down on his jugular. “I think that’s what you had in mind all along, _boy_. Wearing my harness, my straps, my _collar._ Being led on a leash. Muzzled. And Dopheld watching. Would you like that, hmm?”

He brings a harsh hand up against the other man’s crotch, and Hux cries out in shocked pain. He’s rock hard already.

“I would come to your office,” Ben goes on, merciless. “Strip you. Make you wear my leather. You would look so beautiful, so pale against the black leather straps, on all fours on your desk, on my leash while I sit in your chair. And then Mitaka would walk in. Because of course I would leave the door open.”

Hux moans again, loudly, and Ben covers his mouth with his own huge hand while he works his cock harder and faster. “You are not allowed to come until I say so, boy. _Understood_?” Hux nods desperately. “He would see you there. All open and exposed, your butt in the air, your cock so hard, already dripping. Like a piece of flesh. His mighty boss, the man he idol-worships, the all-powerful General, displayed in front of him like the submissive _pet_ he actually is. Can you imagine his face when he sees you like that?”

By now, Hux is frantic, tilting his hips, eyes shut tight, trying to get release, but Ben maddeningly keeps changing the pace of his strokes, and the hand on his mouth is so heavy, he can hardly breathe, and he feels so restrained, so _controlled_ he’s going to burst any moment now…

“And then – I’ll tell him to help himself.”

Hux’s eyes fly wide open. To fall into the Ben’s bottomless black depths.

“Mouth or ass. Whichever he prefers. Because that’s all you’ll be then, Armitage – just two holes to be fucked. To be _used._ Imagine his fingers on your face as he holds it, taking your muzzle off and prising your mouth open while I finger you behind. Can you feel it? Can you see the way he looks down at you? How he looks down at _the dog he’s going to facefuck_?”

He can’t hold it any longer. Hux’s fingernails dig into the flesh of Ben’s forearms as he begs under his hand.

“Come,” orders Ben, huskily. And the last thing Hux is aware of is the sudden heat of Ben’s release at it spills, rope after rope after rope, onto his stomach while he comes so hard it’s almost painful, falling into the dark.


	17. Chapter 17

They go over the plan with Phasma (and Dopheld, who insists on being present – Rey, they say, is not there only because she’s away doing some sort of yoga retreat/training) until she’s happy that they all know it by heart – including the Hosnians.

They are sitting in Ben’s living room, where Dopheld has arranged a surprisingly professional video call using Ben’s TV and his own laptop and camera. “So,” sums up Phasma, again. “The FBI people will be waiting at the venue where the wedding reception will be held. Your Mom’s already pulled the right strings, right?”

Ben nods. “She spoke to the judge, yes. The warrant will be ready by then.”

“Right. So, Hux, you’ll get wired when you come back from the mosque –“

“Fire temple,” Farzaneh corrects her on the TV screen. “We are Zoroastrians, not Muslims.”

“That’s not a type of Muslim?”

The Hosnians sigh. This is obviously something they encounter often, and no longer get truly worked up about. “No,” says Parviz. “It’s the ancient religion of Iran, although it’s also monotheistic. We worship God through fire. Hence the fire temple.”

Phasma – who has never been particularly keen on philosophy or abstract thought in general – blinks for a second, then takes it in and goes on. “Right. So, Hux, you’ll be wired when you get back from the fire temple.”

“Why not wire him in the fire temple?” asks Dopheld. “There would be more time to get Snoke to talk.”

“Hux, you’ll be riding with Snoke in his car, right?”

“Yes.”

“Snoke has technology that interferes with recording in his car too,” explains Phasma. She turns to Hux again. “So when you get to the venue you’ll excuse yourself and go to the toilets, where the FBI people will wire you up. And then you know what you need to do?”

Hux swallows. “Yes. I’ll tell Snoke that I hid a gun and a waiter’s jacket in the toilet. I’ll put on the jacket, then go up to the boxes on the second floor – because the venue is a reformed theatre – and shoot at Parviz and Farzaneh. And then chaos will break out.” He winces. “Is your sister OK with all this?”

The Hosnians shrug. “It can’t be helped. Our family is at risk,” says Parviz. He sighs. “The awful thing is that our close family members know about it, of course, and so does the groom and his parents. Andrew’s people are WASPs through and through. They were already not terribly happy about Andrew marrying Perizaad, much less in a fire temple. And now they think that their son is going to marry into the Iranian mafia.”

“The Johnsons may go all the way back to the Mayflower, but they don’t have two pennies to rub together now,” snaps Farzaneh. “Andrew is coming to work as our legal counsel and we’re guaranteeing the mortgage for their Manhattan duplex.” She scowls. This is clearly a touchy subject in the family. “Haven’t heard them complain about _that_.”

“And we’ve promised to throw another reception later, and to pay for a honeymoon trip around the world,” adds Parviz, brightly.

“Yes, well. Anyway,” harrumphs Phasma, trying to get the conversation back on track. “So, you two will be wearing fake blood blisters under your clothes. You do know how they work?”

Parviz nods earnestly. “Been practising, yes.”

“Awful mess on my clothes,” grumbles Farzaneh. “Good thing I’ll be wearing red.”

“ _No,_ ” snaps Phasma. “Not red. The blood needs to really _show._ Can you wear a light colour?”

“White is traditional too. Fine,” sighs Farzaneh. “White it is.” And under her breath: “Will make sure not to spend too much on the dress, then…”

“ _So,_ ” Phasma steers the conversation back to Hux. “After you shoot, what do you do?”

“I get rid of the jacket and go downstairs again. Join Snoke. And get him to talk then.”

Ben leans forward, frowning in concern. “Snoke may very well leave without waiting for Armitage. I’m worry that he’ll try to set him up as a fall guy.”

Hux shakes his head. “Don’t think he will. I’m his employee. If I killed the Hosnians and they caught me, it would look really suspicious, even if he denied all involvement – it’s pretty clear he would benefit from their deaths. No. This is a test of my loyalty. He wants to see if I have what it takes.”

“Don’t get caught in the act, though”, says Phasma. “It would be rather difficult to explain.”

“Not to mention ruining my sister’s wedding for nothing,” mutters Farzaneh, who smiles sharply when she realises she’s been overheard. “No pressure, though!”

Hux snorts wryly and leans back on the sofa, cradling his coffee. “Nope. No pressure whatsoever.”

***

“Please remind me never to cross Farzaneh Hosnian if I ever forget it,” mutters Hux, once the video conference is over and Dopheld and Phasma have left. “As I said. Ruthless.”

Ben is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, frowning. “What’s the matter?” asks Hux, coming towards him. “You know this needs to be done,” he adds gently, when he sees the expression on his face.

“I know. But I wish there was a way to – to protect you more.” He doesn’t say what he’s thinking. _I wish I could protect you._

The unspoken words are obvious to Hux, though. He smiles slightly. “You are far stronger than me, but I had military training, Ben.”

“I just – it’s Snoke, Armitage. He’s wily. And he’s capable of anything.” He takes Hux by the waist. “I wish I could be there with you.”

“You _will_ be there.” Which is true – Ben has been sent an invitation, which is completely non-suspicious, as an occasional collaborator with the Foundation and Senator Organa’s son to boot.

“Yes. If anything goes wrong…”

“Nothing will go wrong,” says Hux, leaning forward to peck Ben on the lips, in what he hopes is a reassuring kiss. “You know Snoke. He loves to gloat. He won’t be able to help it, once he thinks the deed is done. And just imagine how satisfying it will be to see all those FBI agents swarming out to arrest him.”

Ben makes an effort to smile, and kisses Hux back, deeper this time. “Just bear it in mind. I’ll be there, all the time. Ready. If you need me –“

“I know,” replies Hux, leaning in to nuzzle the crook of Ben’s neck. “I know. You always are.”

***

The night before the wedding, Hux returns to his apartment, as Snoke will be picking him up in the morning. Before going to bed, he lays out his clothes – he had worried about what one wears to a Zoroastrian wedding, but the Hosnians have assured him that a smart suit and tie will be fine. So he picks one of his dark grey suits, dark enough that the trousers will not look out of place when he wears the waiter’s jacket.

Ben won’t be getting in touch tonight. He’s asked him not to – he needs to get into the right mental space, and talking to Ben would only make it harder. Tomorrow, they’ll have to pretend to be complete strangers, and he needs to get used to that.

He hasn’t held a gun in years. He used to be a pretty good shot – not that it will be crucial tomorrow, but at least, he thinks, it will look believable. And, he realises, he’ll be pretending again. _Because that’s what I’ve been doing all these years. Pretend._

Tomorrow, he thinks, will be the end of the pretence. The end of trying to be someone he isn’t and has never been. And there will be consequences. When Snoke arrested and his role in it comes to light, his career will be over. The finance world is unforgiving. Even though officially Snoke will be condemned and there will be much hand-wringing on the media, he knows that he, Hux, will be regarded as a traitor to the industry. And very politely, very regretfully, all doors will be closed to him.

He sighs and shudders under the blankets, suddenly terrified – not by the end of his life as he has lived it so far. But by the vertigo of what waits for him ahead.

_Who am I going to be, afterwards?_

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. And thinks of the warmth, the strength of Ben’s arms, coming around him from behind. Embracing him Supporting him. Holding him. And sighs in relief.

He doesn’t know what is going to happen after tomorrow. And he doesn’t quite know who he’s going to be, after he kills not the Hosnians, but the Armitage who had always lived to meet his father’s, and now Snoke’s, expectations. But it doesn’t seem quite so frightening now, knowing that Ben will be there with him.

He falls asleep on that thought.

***

He is looking at himself in the mirror, adjusting his tie, when he gets the message from Snoke, who is waiting for him on the street. He takes one last look – he does look good, he has to admit, and allows himself a final 007 grin to boost his confidence – and leaves his flat.

Snoke’s old-fashioned black limo is waiting on the kerb, engine running. Snoke’s is sitting at the far end of the back seat, his bulging profile silhouetted against the smoky glass. And, Hux realises as the driver opens the door for him, there is someone else sitting across from him.

“Good morning, Mr Hux,” Snoke greets him, his voice filled with venomous glee. “Or perhaps I should say today, Hux Junior.”

The door slams shut behind him, and Hux can physically feel the blood drain from his face, his skin break out in a cold sweat. His entire body screams _Get out of here. Now._

“Surprise.” 

But he doesn’t move as the car starts. Just stares in disbelief at the malevolent, self-pleased rictus on his father’s face.


	18. Chapter 18

“Surprise,” says his father, and Hux fears, for a terrible second, that he is about to throw up in the limo. Not that he gives a shit about messing up Snoke’s leather upholstery, but he can’t afford to lose control in front of him and his father. Particularly, not today.

He brings himself under control. “Father. How nice to see you.”

Snoke smirks. “I told your father about – today’s schedule. And he was just so proud that you would be playing the main lead, that he insisted on flying over to witness it firsthand.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” says Brendol, his smile as poisonous as Snoke’s. “I’m very invested in this project. I’m so happy that you will be finally living up the family name, I want to make sure everything goes smoothly.” Which, as Hux knows perfectly well, translates as ‘I’m here to make sure you don’t fuck up’.

“I’m perfectly up to the task, Father,” Hux replies, stiffly.

“Of course you are. This is what I raised you for,” his father answers, his smile frozen. “But having backup never hurt anyone, did it?” He turns to Snoke. “Moreover, our common friend Palpatine also asked me to come over. He’s had news of that wayward granddaughter of his.”

“The dyke?” Snoke drawls contemptuously.

“The dyke.” Brendol glances at Hux, who very deliberately forces himself to remain blank. “According to our sources, she’s taken refuge with one of the Organas, the hippy brother. We suspect that your former – protégé facilitated that.”

“Fucking Solo,” growls Snoke.

“Yes, well. I’m meant to find her and drag her back home, kicking and screaming. The old man will be needing a transplant in six months’ time.” Brendol flashes a predatory smile. “And the girl can perfectly well spare a kidney. That’s what family’s for, after all.”

“Hell, she can spare _two_ kidneys if need be,” replies Snoke, and both men guffaw like hyenas. Hux is certain, _certain,_ that he’s going to throw up any minute now.

Somehow, though, he makes it to their destination.  
  


***  
  


The fact that he has brought not one, but two uninvited plus ones with him doesn’t faze Snoke in the least when Parviz Hosnian notices them on the steps to the temple and approaches him.

“Mr Snoke,” he says, clearly forcing himself to be polite. “So good of you to come. And these are…?”

“My associates, Messrs Hux Senior and Junior.” And Snoke doesn’t even bother to apologise or explain. He grins grotesquely, leaning on his cane. “How lovely to be here for such a joyful celebration of _love_.” Making the word sound obscene.

“Yes. Well. We are delighted to have you today. And we really hope that today we’ll be turning a new page in the relationship between the Hosnian Foundation and First Order.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely certain we will be,” replies Snoke, his smile like razor’s edge.

Parviz moves on to greet more guests, and they walk into the temple, Snoke’s bodyguards roughly elbowing a corridor for him among the crowd. Hux manages to detach himself from Snoke and his father, who are absorbed in a conversation about how to annihilate some competitor or other, and pretends to drift aimlessly towards one side of the huge building.

Most of the Zoroastrian guests are dressed in traditional clothes, mainly white and red, although he sees a plethora of saris, peacock-bright, and a few scattered salwar kameez, accessorised with jaunty scarves. There are also flocks of grey pinstriped morning suits that sweep past him trailing familiar plummy English vowels, and ladies-who-lunch in tasteful pastel ensembles – Hux thinks he can spot this season’s Prada and Dior – that have cost more than most people’s cars.

Long rows of chairs have been arranged, wall to wall, and the guests are starting to find their seats when Hux unexpectedly catches sight of Ben on the other side of the hall, and his heart skips a beat. That Ben looks breathtaking in a dark formal suit should come as no surprise, given the man’s physique, but still – a ridiculous, adolescent part of Hux wants to shout _I have sex with that man!_

He quickly slides his gaze over and past Ben, though – he doesn’t want anyone – namely, Snoke and Brendol – to realise that he knows Ben. Much less what he means to him. In any case, the guests are getting settled now, and people – presumably temple staff – are moving in the subtly purposeful way that usually indicates that the ceremony is about to start _and will you please stop faffing around already and go to your seat?_

So he makes his way across the hall to where the two men are already sitting, and takes the seat on the farthermost side, next to an older lady in traditional clothes. There’s plenty of people who still seem not to have realised, and the temple staff are circling around them, trying to shepherd them to their seats.

He looks down at his hands, determined not to be drawn into Brendol and Snoke’s conversation, then looks around the room, taking in the reproductions of ancient Persian art on the walls – the curly-bearded guardians, the winged figures, the portraits of Zoroaster, white-robed and haloed. He has, he realises, no idea what any of this means, and he usually regards himself as a fairly educated man.

A door stands ajar at the far end of the hall, and through it he can glimpse what looks like some sort of huge silver vessel under a sort of canopy. He tilts his head to try and get a better look.

“That’s the sanctum,” says the older lady by his side. “Where the sacred fire is kept.”

Hux nods politely, not really know what she is talking about. The lady smiles and goes on, confidentially, as if telling him a secret: “It’s been burning since Alexander, you know.”

“Alexander?”

“The Greek. People usually call him Alexander the Great. We call him Alexander the Accursed.” She smiles throughout, happy to be telling the story. “When Alexander Iran, he came to Persepolis, the capital. The royal palace was empty, as the Darius, the King of Kings, had fled. One night, Alexander and his companions got very drunk celebrating; and one of the courtesans they travelled with goaded them into burning the palace down. So they all took torches and went to the palace – the courtesan was the first to cast hers. The palace had cedar beams. It burnt down – collapsed. But before that, our priests – the mages – were able to smuggle out a flame of the fire that burnt in Darius’s hall. And every fire lit in a Zoroastrian temple ever since comes from that flame.” She leans forward. “That fire that you see burning there, in that room, is the fire that burnt in Persepolis, in the palace of the King of Kings, more than two thousand years ago.”

Hux stares at the lady, then at the vessel in the sanctum, inexplicably moved by the thought of such persistence, such faith, to keep the flame alive – the flame lit by Darius, the last Achaemenid king – over the centuries, through persecution and exile and despair.

He can’t help himself: he looks up at glances at Ben, across the room, for the briefest moment. His sacred fire, which he carries in his innermost sanctum.

Then looks back at the lady, and smiles back at her. “It’s a beautiful story.”

And doesn’t realise how Snoke has followed his eyes.

***

At last, the groom comes in, a tall, blonde, blue-eyed man in white Persian clothes, wearing a garland of crimson flowers and a beaming smile.

“Ack,” spits out Snoke, not even bothering to keep his voice down. “I can’t make it through this. Make way, Brendol.”

He gets up noisily, forcing Brendol and Hux, as well as the rest of the row, to stand up. “Don’t just stay there, help me out! I’m going outside.”

All three of them make their noisy, clumsy way out of the temple, to some disapproving stares – although, fortunately for Hux’s embarrassment, most of the audience is too enraptured by the sight of the wedding party making its way down the aisle to notice the grumbling, bitter old man.

“Ben Solo was in there,” he says at last, when they reach the area outside the temple door. His eyes are glittering with malice. “Wonder how he got himself invited. Must have been that bitch mother of his.” Hux looks studiously neutral.

“He was?” says Brendol. “Perhaps I should have a little talk with him about the Palpatine girl, then…”

“You definitely should. But not here – too public, too many people. Let’s wait until we get to the banquet venue. Are you ready, Mr Hux?”

Hux nods curtly. “I believe so, sir.”

Snoke’s eyes glint again. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

***

Once at the venue, Snoke stays in the main hall for a long time, gleefully targeting his barbs at acquaintances who are too polite – or too intimidated – to extricate themselves from his death grip. Finally, the wedding party arrives, and the milling guests part to let the radiant bride and groom through.

Hux leans close to Snoke’s ear. “I’ll be off, then.” But he finds his wrist unexpectedly caught in Snoke’s vice-like grip.

“Change of plans, Mr Hux.” He looks up at his father. “Brendol,” he calls out to him. “Will you please oversee young Armitage here? You can discuss Ms Palpatine with Mr Solo some other time. I wouldn't want _anything_ to interfere with this.”

Brendol smirks. “Of course.” He grabs Hux’s elbow, hard, and hisses into his ear: “I’m not letting you out of my sight, boy. So you’d better deliver.”


	19. Chapter 19

Ben hasn’t worn a formal suit in years, ever since his mother forced him to go to all those political events. But he’s grateful that he managed to hang onto a decent jacket and trousers, and, most of all, that they still fit. They are black – a leftover from his emo, goth-y youth – and not really suitable for a wedding, but they’ll have to do.

That’s one of the things he likes about Hux, silly though it may sound – he has impeccable sartorial taste. His suits always hang beautifully on him, and the colours suit him, as if he has actually made a deliberate choice. And today is no exception – when he sees him among the crowd at the entrance to the fire temple, Hux looks magnificent in a subtly greenish dark grey suit that – appropriately – accentuates his flame-like hair and sea-green eyes.

Hux is standing next to Snoke, and an older, heavy-set blond man whose back it turned to Ben. Ben frowns – one of Snoke’s goons? But the man’s suit looks far to expensive, his stance far too assured, and he’s too close to Snoke to be one of his bodyguards. He’s about to move to try and get a good look at the man’s face, when his attention is abruptly pulled back by another face in the crowd.

An all too familiar face. Poe.

He feels all the shame and guilt flood into him again. He ducks slightly, hoping to pass unnoticed, but of course Poe has seen him. And of course, being who he is, Poe calls out “Ben!” And makes his way through the guests towards him, followed by a tall, willowy creature.

_Not him. Not here. Not now._

And of course, Poe is beaming as he comes towards him. As if he’s delighted to see him. As if – nothing had happened.

“Ben!”

Ben forces himself to smile in reply. “Poe. Hello!” he says. Stupidly.

And then, _and then,_ Poe hugs him. He actually reaches forward and _hugs him._ It’s unbearable.

“Ben! So good to see you!!!” He pulls back, still smiling. “I see time has treated you well.”

Ben grimaces another smile, looks at his shoes, then up again. At the woman next to him, desperate for someone else to step in.

“This is Barzine,” says Poe smoothly, passing his arm around the taller woman’s shoulders. She’s – exquisite. A lithe, svelte frame, high cheekbones, the sort of thin, angular, disdainful patrician beauty of which catwalks apparently cannot enough. Because _of course_ she’s a model. “We met on a shoot,” confirms Poe. “Barzine, this is Ben, one of my oldest friends.”

The aloof beauty smiles slightly, looking bored. “So nice to meet you. My mother made me come.” Giving Ben the distinct impression that she couldn’t care less and is here on sufferance.

“Barzine is half-Iranian – her family are friends of the Hosnians. Do you know them too?”

Ben really, really wishes he could have a drink right now. “Yes. Through, erm, my work.”

Poe’s smile becomes ever so slightly dimmer. “Oh, yes, of course. Your work.” But he recovers quickly. “Anyway, we should be going inside, I think. So great to see you, Ben. Let’s keep in touch.” And he suddenly whips his mobile phone out of his pocket. “What’s your number?”

 _I don’t want to give you my number. I don’t want to see you ever again,_ thinks Ben. But he duly spells out the digits, and Poe’s number immediately flashes on the screen.

“Great,” beams Poe. “Talk soon, then!” And he disappears in the crowd, shepherding the reluctant Barzine.

The shame is so intense, that Ben feels he must be boiling, it must be visible, everyone around him must be noticing. For a second, there is also the other, more dangerous emotion. Rage – resentful rage at Poe’s aggressive niceness, his kindness, his friendliness. Because he’s decided that he forgives Ben, that bygones are bygones, his generosity bright and all-encompassing, whether Ben likes it or not.

_How dare he? How fucking dare he?_

And then he realises that he’s clenching his fists so hard that he’s digging his nails into his palms – he remembers when he used to do this until they bled; one of the reasons why he wore those ridiculous black leather gloves for son long.

He takes a deep breath. The shame floods back in, but at least it’s just shame now, and not quite so strong. It was bound to happen, sooner or later, he supposes. But that’s not the point, now.

The point is Hux.

He looks back up, searching for him, but he’s nowhere to be found as he joins the crowd milling into the temple. He’s lost him.

***

For a horrible second, Hux thinks he’s going to hyperventilate. It’s not so much his father’s grip on his arm, hard though it is, or the fact that Brendol has some thirty pounds on him and is still, despite his age, stronger than him. Rather, it’s the very proximity of him. His smell. That mix of cigar smoke and – appropriately enough – Eau Sauvage which immediately triggers a Pavlovian reaction in him.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he manages to say, eventually. “I stashed the gun there.”

“No, boy,” Brendol replies. “You’re using this.” He opens one side of his jacket, displaying a handgun tucked in the waist of his trousers.

“What? But…” But protesting is pointless, he sees straight away. It’s obvious what Brendol’s – and Snoke’s – goal is here: no doubt they have procured the gun in such a way that it incriminates him in some way. Another guarantee that he’ll toe the line, in the future.

It’s clear that Brendol won’t leave his side if he tries to get to the bathroom and tell the FBI people. He looks around desperately, trying to find Ben, so he can _see_ , so he can _tell_ …

“The wedding party are arriving,” says Brendol, looking towards the entrance. “We’d better get going. Better have plenty of time to get you ready for your big moment, eh?”

Hux feverishly goes over the possibilities as his father frogmarches him through the crowd. He’s going to have to turn on Brendol, possibly knock him out – but then he’ll be outed as a spy, and they’ll have nothing to hold against Snoke, who’ll no doubt take immediate revenge. He can pretend to miss the shot – but there’s the horrible possibility that Brendol will take over and finish the job himself, as he’s so invested in the outcome of this.

_Where the fuck is Ben???_

Brendol is driving him up a flight of stairs, through a corridor, into the former theatre mezzanine. Finally they reach the point which Snoke’s minions have no doubt scouted in advance, a former theatre box which has full view of the entire venue, where the seating area used to be. Guests are seated at round tables on the main floor, while the bridge and groom and their families sit at a long table on the stage. Farzaneh and Parviz are dressed, as Phasma commanded, in white.

Hux only has to lean forward slightly on the waist-height rail to have a clear shot their heads.

“Here,” says Brendol, handing him the gun. “The box is shadowed unless we turn the light on, so nobody will see you here. Wait until everyone’s settled.” He chuckles. “Shame about the honeymoon, really. Waste of money.”

Hux hides his gulp as he takes the gun. Brendol takes a look at him, at his ghastly pallor, and grimaces in disgust. “Such a weakling. Am I going to have to do it myself?”

“No,” he croaks. But Brendol is grabbing his hand with the gun, hard. Turning him around so that he’s facing the rail. The stage. The guests.

“ _Then do it._ ”

He’s sweating now, a cold sweat down his neck and back, as the nausea rises. Brendol looms over him, bull-like, immutable, his smell enveloping him and making him retch – he is small and helpless again, he is back in the academy, that first day, and the two older boys are pushing him over the table, and forcing his legs wide open, and Brendol is right in front of him, _smirking –_

“Fucking sissy. Just as weak as that whore I bought you from.”

And then Hux turns around. Tears his wrist away from Brendol’s beefy hand. And strikes him across the face with the butt of the gun, so hard that he hears the bone crack, and blood splatters noisily across the wall of the box.

And hits and hits and hits. With bare hands. Berserk-blind.

“Armitage!”

He looks up from the red, pulpy mess where Brendol’s face used to be, a considerable part of which is now spattered across his suit.

Ben.

“Enough, Armitage. Enough.”

With no concern whatsoever, Ben pushes Brendol’s wheezing mass aside and crouches in front of Hux. “It’s all right, Armitage. I’m here now.”

Hux realises that he’s panting hard with the effort, with the adrenaline, with fear and, most of all, with rage. He knows for a fact he would have killed Brendol if Ben hadn’t turned up.

“He called her a whore. Said – said she _sold_ me,” he gasps, breathless, eyes still glassy with violence.

Ben blanches as he realises just who the other man is. He glances at him – he himself couldn’t have done any better. He nods wordlessly.

Behind him, two undercover FBI agents take in the scene and frown at Ben. “What the hell…”

“It’s okay,” Ben tells the agents. “Just a slight change of plans”.

***

The two shots bloom like violent, lethal flowers: first on Farzaneh’s breast, then across Parviz’s. Chaos breaks out as they collapse on the table, leaving streaks of arterial red across the immaculate linen.

Snoke, who had a head start, is about to get into his limo when he hears the voice calling out to him. “In a hurry to leave?”

A sweaty, blood-spattered Hux, glaring at him like a wild animal.

“Mr Hux. Where is your father?”

“My _father,_ ” Hux spits it out as though it were a dirty word, “is still in there, knocked out by Ben Solo. He almost made me miss the shot. Must have seen us with you and followed us to the box. I got the job done, though.”

Snoke’s eyes go wide with vengeful glee. “And Ben Solo? Did you kill him too?”

“Yes.”

And then Snoke _just_ _can’t help himself_. “I got rid of the fucking Hosnians plus fucking Ben Solo in a single stroke. You just got your promotion, Mr Hux. And a bonus. Congratulations.”

Hux smirks, so coldly that even Snoke realises something’s amiss. “Indeed. And I’m cashing it in right now. Did you get everything?”

“Loud and clear!” shouts a voice from far behind him. And then a posse of FBI agents in vests which Hux thought only existed in films spring out from nowhere.

Hux hears Snoke’s outraged, betrayed cry as he thrashes around with his cane, like some nasty, wounded vermin determined to harm as many as possible to the end. Somewhere, also, there is someone reading him his rights, and sirens, and the whole pandemonium of all the fleeing, panicked guests.

But hardly any of it registers. All he can see is Ben’s face, pale and taut and beautiful, flooding with relief as he strides across the car park towards him.


	20. Chapter 20

The first thing Hux does when the FBI drop them at Ben’s flat is take a long, hot shower. For about 45 minutes, until he scrubs off every single trace of his father’s blood off him and sweats all the adrenalin out of his system.

When he comes out of the bathroom, clad in an oversize t-shirt and cotton pyjama bottoms, Ben is sitting at the kitchen counter, staring into a mug of coffee. Looking utterly devastated.

A cold knot of fear seizes Hux. “Ben, what’s the matter?”

Ben looks up, his black eyes liquid. “I’m so sorry, Hux. I failed you.”

“What…? What are you talking about?”

“I failed you. I wasn’t there for you, as I promised. I lost sight of you, lost track of you. _You could have been killed._ ”

Hux comes closer to him, places his hand gently on Ben’s arm. “But you were there for me when I needed you. You _did_ find me.”

Ben looks away, his shame and guilt radiating like fever. “I got distracted, and placed you at risk, Armitage. I… I don’t deserve to be with you.”

“What?” Hux grabs Ben’s face, turning it and forcing him to look at him. “What’s going on, Ben?”

Ben draws away from Hux’s touch as if it scalded me. “I got distracted because I came across an ex of mine. Poe.”

Hux goes very still. “I see.” He is silent for a moment. “You never told me about him.”

“No.”

Hux swallows. Fearing the worst. “When you say you got distracted… did anything happen?”

Ben looks up at him, surprised and fierce. “What? No!!! No. No, nothing like that.” He looks down at his hands. “I was – shaken. Badly shaken. But nothing happened.”

Silence for a moment. Then Hux: “Ben, you are going to have to tell me more about it. Because right now I can’t really understand what you are feeling. And I would like to.” He looks at Ben in the eye. “Please. Tell me.”

But Ben is unable to hold his gaze and quickly looks away. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Hux lowers his head, saying nothing. Then steps back and quietly goes into the guest room.

***

_“Allô?”_

The voice on the other side of the line is slightly blurry with sleepiness – but then, it’s very early morning in Paris.

“Amilyn. It’s Ben. I’m sorry to call you at this time…”

“Ben!!!” The voice perks up immediately, delighted. And then, just as quickly, veers into concern. “Has anything happened?” 

“No. No. I mean, no one has died or had an accident or anything like that. It’s just… I really need to talk. I know this is awful, it’s an imposition…”

“Give me ten minutes,” says the voice, firmly. Taking him seriously, straight away. “I need to get some coffee and toast in me before I can think properly. And then we’ll talk.”

***

“So Armitage didn’t know about Poe.” Amilyn stresses the last syllable and makes the affricate voiced in her French accent _: ArmiTAAZH._ He can see visualise her immediately, her pink hair and avant-garde clothes incongruous in her huge, serene, Neoclassical apartment on Avenue Montaigne. God, he's missed her.

“No.”

“Was it a deliberate omission on your part?”

Ben thinks for a moment. “Not deliberate, no.” A pause. “At least not consciously.”

“Are you afraid of losing him if you tell him? Of scaring him away?”

“Well, yes, obviously.”

“He deserves to know if you are to have a serious relationship, Ben. You know that. And – it’s not such a terrible thing as you make it out to be. It happened a long time ago. You took immediate action. It hasn’t happened again. And from what you tell me, Poe is not resentful of you – he understood, he’s even friendly towards you now.”

 _Fuck that._ “Yes,” mutters Ben, between gritted teeth. “But I find that really hard, to be honest.”

“You find the fact that Poe is friendly towards you hard?”

“I find his _forgiveness_ hard to stomach.”

“Why?”

A pause. “Because I don’t deserve it.”

“You don’t get to decide that, Ben. Poe does. And he’s forgiven you.”

Ben snorts. “I think I prefer to hang on to my guilt, to be honest. It seems – right.”

“Right. Well, you’re perfectly free to hang onto it if you like, of course. And you do realise that you’re lumping other guilts of yours in there, too.”

Ben is slightly taken aback. He had forgotten how sharp his analyst is, in every sense. He swallows. “You mean my father’s death. My mother. I try not to think about that too much.” A pause. “And yet it’s always there, in the background, yes. Like a constant hum at the back of my mind.” He thinks, rectifies. “A constant pain.”

“Which you don’t want to let go. As you don’t want to let your guilt over Poe go.”

Ben is quiet for a moment. “There’s also – I’m afraid. Of being that man again. Of hurting people.”

“You’re afraid of hurting Armitage?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you’ve been engaging in – the sort of... psychosexual practices you have specialised in on a regular basis with him. Quite intense ones, from what you say. And it’s been very fulfilling for both of you.”

“Yes. I’m always extremely careful, about consent, limits, finding out what the other wants, what the other needs. And I’ve been extra careful with Armitage. Because he was – he was so fragile. And he needed it so badly. I couldn’t afford to get it wrong with him.” He covers his face with the hand not holding the telephone. “Amilyn, I’m terrified of losing control. And I lost control today, because of Poe. It brought everything back. I don’t want to hurt Armitage. I endangered him. And I’d rather leave him than risk that.”

Amilyn hums. “You’ve taken on the role of protector with this man. And yet he seems, from what you have told me, perfectly capable of defending himself.” She pauses for a second. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps it was a good thing that you didn’t come immediately to his rescue?”

He is so shocked by the thought that he goes speechless for a moment. “I… I hadn’t thought of that.”

He can hear the smile in her voice when she replies: “You made a mistake, Ben. You were caught off your guard and stumbled. And everything turned out fine nonetheless. Use your mistake to beat yourself and perpetuate your guilt if that’s what you want, by all means. But you really should consider why you need so much to hang on to your guilt.” Her voice grows sharper. “And you can leave the relationship at any time if it doesn’t work for you. But leaving Armitage just to inflict that on yourself is _idiotic_. He doesn’t deserve it.”

A long, long pause. Then: “You’re right. He doesn’t.”

Amilyn waits for a moment. Then Ben, again: “I need to talk to him.”

“Yes. You do.” A beat. “And also – you know that Armitage needs help, Ben. Particularly now, given what has happened with his father. And, as his partner, you can’t be the one to give it to him.”

“I know. I – I will bring it up with him.”

“Good. And Ben?”

“Yes?”

“If you want to talk again too, I always have time for you.”

***

Ben walks into the guest bedroom, where Hux is lying on top of the bed, curled on his side, facing away from Ben. Almost foetal. He’s awake.

“Can we talk?” he asks quietly.

Hux turns around to look at him and props himself up on his elbows, trying – not too successfully – to tamp down his anger. “If you feel like it now.”

Ben sits on the edge of the bed. “I need to tell you about what happened with Poe.” And he see how fear flits across Hux’s face. “Not at the wedding – I told you the truth, nothing happened, he just came over to say hello. It’s just – it upset me.”

He can see, so clearly, how Hux is thinking, right now, that Poe is an old flame, that Ben still has feelings for him, that he saw Poe at the wedding and missed him, that his relationship with Hux can’t really measure up against that…

“I’m not in love with him, Armitage.”

Hux takes a shuddering, relieved breath. “So what upset you so much?”

Ben shuts his eyes briefly. Gets hold of himself.

“I met Poe when I was in Paris, starting my Ph.D. He was the son of a French diplomat and a Guatemalan socialite, and was already working as an assistant photographer for Vogue. We met at a party and started having sex on a – well, we had sex all the time. I had just got away from the States and from my family, and meeting Poe felt like the best thing that had ever happened to me. I was just a boy – a fucked-up kid, out of his depth. I fell utterly, desperately in love, of course.” Ben grimaces at the memory, ashamed of his ungainly, puppyish past self, and Hux cannot help but feel a pang of pity: for the overintense, love-hungry young man, for the older man who still blames himself for his mistakes.

“Anyway. Poe was much wordlier than me. He moved in circles that dazzled me, all these models, celebrities, actors, intellectuals – beautiful, rich, interesting people. I always felt out of place when I was with him, but he laughed and said that he loved showing me off. That he thought I was beautiful. I found that really hard to believe.”

“I don’t,” says Hux, quietly.

Ben winces. “He was obviously much more sexually experienced than me, too. But we were both so young. I still hadn’t figured out what I liked, other than I preferred men. And I was ashamed of my dominant impulses – I felt like I must be a terrible person to fantasise about doing those things to people. And Poe – well, he wasn’t monogamous. He was quite promiscuous, in fact. Which should have been obvious, but it wasn’t to me. And we never talked about it. I was in love with him, I thought I was his boyfriend. That – we belonged to each other.”

“I knew that he slept around. He never hid it, never denied it, even if we didn’t discuss it. And it preyed on my mind. I couldn’t bear the thought, but I couldn’t say or do anything about it either, because he hadn’t promised me anything, he never said we were in a relationship, and of course, I loathed myself, so it was only normal that he would prefer to fuck other people. He probably only fucked me out of pity. Or as a joke. That’s what I felt.” He looks up at Hux. “I was – I was just grateful that he allowed me to be with him. Because I loved him so much.”

“Oh, Ben.”

Ben looks down, clenches his fists. “And then one night – I had been having a really rough time. My mother called, and we had a screaming row over the telephone. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I felt – pointless. Disgusting. A failure. And then Poe walked into my apartment – I had given him the keys.”

“He had been with someone else, it was obvious. I could smell it on him, on his clothes. And he looked _so happy._ Beaming. And so happy to see me.”

“I saw red. Literally. Suddenly my self-loathing and my jealousy and my possessiveness and my despair at myself came together, and there was only this roar in my ears and I was _so angry –“_

“I pushed him up against a wall. And choked him.”

There’s a long, long silence.

“What happened?” asks Hux, quietly.

“He started going red in the face. And I realised what I was doing. I dropped him. Immediately.”

He sees the scene again. Him, recoiling in sheer horror at himself, as Poe coughs and splutters, gasping for breath. _I could have killed him._

“But you didn’t.”

He looks up. He must have said it out loud.

“You didn’t. You stopped.”

He remembers. How he broke down, sobbing. Hating himself more than ever. How Poe had quietly picked up his stuff and left. Saying nothing.

“He didn’t even file charges, Armitage. He could have. He should have…” He takes a deep breath, pushing down a sob. “That was when I realised I needed help. And I started seeing Amilyn.”

“Your analyst?”

Ben nods.

Hux is very serious now. “Did it ever happen again?”

Ben shakes his head. “I mean, I had had violent outbursts all my life. But this was the worst it ever got. After that, when I started therapy, I – I started managing them better. And then I started to learn about BDSM and so on, and I felt I could channel it that way.”

“What happened with Poe?”

“I came across him once, a couple of years later. I told him how sorry I was about what had happened, and that I was getting help. He… was very gracious about it. But kept his distance, understandably enough. I was relieved that he did, too. Because I was so ashamed of what I had done. I didn’t try to contact him again.”

“And then you came across him today.”

“He was so _fucking friendly_ , Armitage. I was – thrown off. Ashamed. So ashamed. So angry, again. I felt it, again.”

“What did you feel?”

“Why would anyone be kind to me when I’m a fuckup who doesn’t deserve it?”

He looks up at Hux, and for a second Hux sees the boy Ben was – tortured by his own self-loathing, his guilt, his shame, his desires. A seething mass of rage and fear and destruction.

And then Ben takes a deep breath, and steadies himself, and the man he knows is back. Shaken and sore and vulnerable, but he’s back. “I couldn’t bear the thought of having failed you because of how I fucked up, Armitage. I couldn’t bear the thought of placing you at risk.”

Hux takes a long look at him. “I was terrified when I couldn’t see you at the venue, at first. But not because I felt abandoned. Because I knew that something unexpected, something bad must have happened for you not to be there. You must have been waylaid in some way – and you had been. You were shocked by something that still brings you enormous guilt.” He takes Ben’s hand. “And still you managed to find me.”

“Not in time. I should have…”

Hux squeezes Ben’s hand. “Ben. I’m glad you didn’t turn up sooner. I was terrified, but I dealt with it. And I dealt with my father. _I_ did.” Proud.

“You were magnificent,” whispers Ben, remembering how Hux stood, shaken and covered in blood, knuckles bruised, in the car park. He’d never looked so beautiful.

Hux smiles weakly, a wave of weariness suddenly crashing down on him, the exhausted anticlimax after the long, long day. “Thank you for telling me.” He scoots across the bed and places his hands on Ben’s forearms, drawing him closer. Nuzzling him. Gently, gently. Then pulls the blanket down with one hand, and with the other pulls at Ben’s body until they both fall down onto the softness. “Hold me,” he says, and turns the light out, and they manoeuvre themselves between the cool, crisp sheets, and Ben’s arms are around him, warm and strong and human.

“I love you,” whispers Ben as they settle down, spooning against each other. And feels the smile on Hux’s lips as he softly kisses the inside of his wrist.

“I love you too.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the story has come to its end. Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has read it and followed it, to everyone who has left their comments and kudos - it's meant the world to me, particularly in these circumstances. I hope, in turn, that the story may have brought at least a certain degree of escapism at this awful time. 
> 
> My deepest thanks to everyone again - and please, please, keep safe and take care of yourselves. See you all on the other side of this.

And then, the aftermath: long, anticlimactic, and exhausting. They are both interrogated by the FBI for several days, but they focus more on Hux – not only because he was directly involved, but because his career in finance, plus his being a resident alien with a posh accent and his slightly aloof demeanour, don’t exactly ingratiate him to the investigators, who for a while suspect that this could all be an incredibly elaborate ruse on his part.

When everything is finally settled, more or less, they go back to Ben’s flat, where Hux collapses into bed and sleeps for three days straight, almost. (He does emerge every six hours or so to go to the bathroom and grab a bit and a drink, then promptly sinks into unconsciousness again).

One evening, though, Ben comes back from his office across the landing and hears low, pained groans coming from the bedroom. He walks in quietly, to find Hux tossing and turning, his face and torso covered in sweat, curled on his side, fists bunched across his chest. Defending himself from some fearsome enemy – which, judging from his muttering, is most likely his father, or rather the father living inside his head.

“Armitage.”

He sits on the edge of the bed and gently places his hand on Hux’s bare back, which is clammy to his touch. No response.

He shakes him slightly. “Armitage.”

Hux startles awake, or at least his eyes open wide and his unfocused gaze darts to Ben. He’s shaking, and it’s clear he’s still in some sort of limbo between sleep and wakefulness.

“It’s all right, Armitage,” says Ben, remembering the time he said just those same words to him in the sex club’s toilets. “It’s all right. It was just a nightmare.”

But Hux is shaking, still looking up at him in silent, uncomprehending terror. Realising that words won’t do just now, Ben moves up onto the bed and folds his arms around Hux, enveloping in his warmth, murmuring a flow of reassuring, soothing endearments, more tone than meaning.

Eventually, Hux stops trembling and looks up at him, actually seeing _him_. “I – I’m sorry I disturbed you, Ben.”

“Don’t be silly,” says Ben, smoothing a strand of red hair back from Hux’s sweaty forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Hux repeats, nonetheless. “I thought it would be over, but I keep having these nightmares –“

“You went through a lot, Armitage,” Ben says, kissing his shoulder. “It’s completely normal. Although – there’s things you’ll need to process, on a more long-term basis.” He looks up at him. “You still need help. And I can’t help you with that. I… know someone who might be a good fit for you, though.”

Hux sighs. Conceding. “Yes. I know you’re right. It’s just – daunting.” He leans against Ben. “I’m willing to, though. I can’t drag this thing along for the rest of my life.”

Ben conceals his exultation. “Good.”

“Can you, though…? Now…?”

Hux is looking at him, hesitantly. Asking. Ben smiles slightly. “Whatever you need.”

He shifts to a more comfortable position on the bed, turning on one side to hold Hux’s face with one hand while the other trails down his body. It’s not a sensuous touch, more comforting, but he feels Hux react to his touch, his rising hips, the shudder across his skin, the way his breath catches. It’s utterly beautiful, and it makes him dizzy, that he can have this effect on this man. He could spend all day watching this, fascinated.

Hux buries his face in the crook of Ben’s shoulder and they just lie like that for a long while, in the warm silence, with only Hux’s low sighs and groans and his shuddering breath.

It’s no good, though. Hux is hard and aroused – as is Ben – but, despite Ben’s repeated stroking, he cannot find his release. And he is starting to get sore. He places his hand on Ben’s.

“I can’t. I’m sorry – I can’t.”

Ben withdraws his hand and kisses him, gently. But Hux is upset.

“I just can’t – oh God. What a mess. What a fuckup.” He starts to sob.

Ben just holds him, kissing his hair, as the tears stream down Hux’s face. “It’s going to be all right, Armitage. I promise. It’s going to be all right.”

***

Eventually, Hux falls asleep again. He wakes up in the morning, and for the first time in days his automatic reaction of fumbling for his mobile phone on the nightstand kicks in. It’s not there.

Ben is sitting at the kitchen counter, having his breakfast and scrolling through the news on his tablet.

“My phone?”

Ben smirks. “I took it off you and turned it off. You needed the rest.” He hands it to him. Hux turns it on, and the screen immediately displays a horrifying number of missed calls and messages.

Not that any of them matters very much, he realises suddenly. He’s lost his job, and he’s now a pariah in the financial world. Most of these people are probably journalists wanting the dirt on Snoke. He wants to cry.

“Caffeine first,” mutters Ben, helpfully setting a mug of the blackest coffee in front of him. He is pressing his lips, suppressing a smile. “By the way. The Hosnians called me, when they couldn’t get in touch with you.”

“Oh?”

“They want you to be the new CFO of their family office. And give you a seat on the Foundation board.”

Hux looks up, startled. “ _What?_ ”

Ben grins at Hux’s reaction. “They asked me to tell you that it’s not just a matter of gratefulness for what you did for them, they also recognise good stuff when they see it. They told me to say this to you, textually, that they looked at your track record and they’re definitely _not_ letting someone as brilliant as you slip between their fingers.” He takes a sip. “Congratulations! You just got yourself a new job. And fucking well deserved, too.”

Hux blinks. Stunned. Relieved. And, to his own surprise, slightly… disappointed. He makes himself smile, though. “Oh. That’s – good. That’s great. Great news.”

Ben frowns slightly. “Is it? You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“No, I’m happy, I really am. And it’s a huge relief. I was worried about being able to keep my flat, about being kicked out of the country.”

“That was _never_ going to happen, Armitage.”

Hux smiles slightly at how fortunate most Americans are to be so clueless about the draconian nature of US immigration law, even for legal immigrants. “No, well, I’m pleased, anyway. It’s just – I felt this – what has happened – was a U-turn for me. Professionally, too. Because I wouldn’t be able to work in finance anymore. And, however frightening the prospect of being unemployed was, I wasn’t really that upset. In a way, I was glad to get out of that too.”

Ben tilts his head. “What would you rather do?”

Hux looks down at his mug, embarrassed. “This is ridiculous, but – remember that book you picked up when you were in my flat?”

“The Robert Graves one?”

“ _Good-Bye to All That,_ yes. It’s his autobiography – from childhood through his time in the trenches in World War I, until he left England. It’s a very odd book – he was an odd man, and a brilliant writer and poet. His family was also – well, not quite on a par with my father, but – he knew about the need to get away from that. To escape.” He swallows to hide his face. “And he was also quite obviously submissive.”

Ben waits.

“I keep going back to it, I’m not sure why. It’s not that I want to write my autobiography or anything like that, but – it makes me want to write. Something.” And now Hux is flushing. “It’s not practical at all, I know, and I need to make a living, and – _no, Ben, I’m not going to live off you,”_ he adds scathingly, seeing how Ben is about to counter him.

“I wasn’t going to say that,” replies Ben, defensive. “I think I know you better than to suggest that. What I was going to say is – perhaps it’s not incompatible?”

“A position as CFO would take up all my time and all my energy, Ben. At least if I did it properly.”

“But that’s the thing, Hux. Your idea of ‘properly’ has been shaped by working for, well, dickheads like Snoke and Palpatine and the rest of 1% macho hypercapitalist fuckers who are fucking up the world. But it doesn’t have to be that way. And, knowing the Hosnians and their work, I don’t think it would be like that. It’s an NGO, after all.”

Struck, Hux considers the idea, which clearly hadn’t occurred to him. “I _am_ good at my job,” he says, tentatively.

“And you would be using your powers for good, for once.” Hux remains silent, so Ben goes on. “You’re also good at negotiating. Negotiate your contract. I think you _can_ take the job and also live like a human being. With time for your own life and all that.”

“Crush numbers to create sustainable healthcare for all during the day, write in my spare time?” The thought is making Hux dizzy. Could he – could people _do that_? Would he be _allowed_? “What about you, though?” he asks lightly, trying to ignore his vertigo at the sudden possibilities. “Presumably you’d still want sex now and then.”

“As if _you_ wouldn’t, you filthy slut,” growls Ben, flicking him with a kitchen towel. “I have a job too, Hux. I see patients, consult, teach. And I still find time to do other things. Actually, I’ve been talking to Amilyn again, and she’s asked me if I would collaborate with her on a book – an academic textbook, but working with her would be fun.”

Hux is quiet for a moment, thinking. “I want Phasma and Mitaka to come with me, too. And Mitaka is to be given a management position – he’s far too good to be a PA all his life,” he says firmly, sounding every bit the General.

Ben can’t help but grin. “So tell the Hosnians and fight for it.” He leans forward and kisses Hux on the lips. “But really, Armitage – I seriously doubt you’ll have any problems getting what you want.”

***

A couple of weeks later, Hux returns from the street shivering with cold. Autumn is edging into winter now, and the city is on the edge of that first snap of real cold. “I need to find my gloves,” he mutters, rubbing his hands to warm them after he takes off his coat.

“What you need is to unpack and decide where you are going to put your clothes, Armitage,” Ben calls him out from the kitchen island, where he is cooking dinner. “It’s been a week since you moved your stuff in.”

“Arranging my wardrobe is a delicate matter, I’ll have you know. It’s a question of _strategy,_ not just a matter of stuffing all my socks in a drawer.” He goes up to the island and dips a finger in the sauce Ben has just made. “By the way, she’s great.”

Ben beams as he turns from the stove. “Isn’t she? I thought Naomi would be a great fit.” Mainly because Naomi Unamo, the daughter of Nigerian immigrants who has had to fight tooth and nail to get her education, is one of the most no-nonsense people he knows. Someone Hux won’t be able to intimidate or outwit.

“Yes, you were right, you’re a genius and I bow to your geniusness,” grimaces Hux, but he’s secretly pleased and relieved. It’s the first time he’s talked to someone, a professional, who he feels can actually _help._

Ben takes the sauce, pours it over the lasagna, and places the dish in the oven. “Phasma and Mitaka will be here in forty-five minutes, and I need a shower. Want to go first?”

***

Later that evening, after dinner, the four of them are sitting on the sofas, drinking coffee and chatting after the excellent dinner. Apparently, Ben wasn’t kidding when he said that he found time for other pursuits than his work.

“So Rey tells me you’ve been in touch?” Phasma asks Ben.

“Yes, she’s been needing some support,” confirms Ben. “No wonder. Having to go back to the UK to testify against her own grandfather, who intended to use her as essentially a living organ bank… That’s seriously tough. She’s bearing up incredibly well, though.”

“Ah, well, she’s a fighter,” says Phasma, her voice warm with fondness. She looks at Ben, who nods, then at Mitaka. “Dopheld.”

Mitaka rises from his seat and quickly returns with a parcel in his hand. A present. He hands it to Hux.

“We wanted to thank you again for putting in a good word for us with the Hosnians, General.”

“Nonsense. I did nothing. They’re lucky to have you. You shouldn’t have…” And Hux’s words trail away as he opens the box.

“To be honest, it’s probably more of a present for Ben. He was the one who suggested it,” says Phasma, a sly smile on her lips. “But I understand that it’s something you will both enjoy.”

Hux pulls the present out of the box. It’s a set of beautiful silver nipple clamps.

“Real silver,” says Phasma. “A friend of mine makes them.”

Hux, dry-mouthed, turns to look at Ben. Who is smiling cat-like. “But that’s not the real present for Armitage, I think,” he says.

“Oh no.” All three of them – Ben, Phasma, and even Mitaka – are smiling now, and suddenly Hux feels as if he’s lost his footing.

“What’s this? Some sort of trap?” he jokes, trying to lighten the intensity, the sheer _hunger_ of his friends’ gazes. Which are all trained on _him._

“As Ben said. A gift,” says Phasma. Then turns to Mitaka, and merely nods.

Straight away, wordlessly, and ever-efficient, Mitaka starts to methodically remove and fold his clothes.

“What are you…?” Hux protests faintly.

“Shhh,” Ben hushes him, and pulls him onto the end of the sofa, where a longer extension serves almost as a chaiselongue. “They just want to thank you as you deserve, Armitage.” He positions himself behind Hux, so that he is lying back on Ben’s chest, his legs within the span of Ben’s legs. “You know you can always stop this at any point,” Ben whispers in Hux’s ear.

But Hux swallows and shakes his head. Ben smiles into his hair, and starts to undo the buttons on his shirt.

Hux realises with dismay that his nipples are already upright as Ben pulls his shirt open. Then he looks up, and they’re not the only thing that stands upright.

Mitaka is standing in front of them, stark naked, his face flushed – with desire, with eagerness, with shyness. Hux’s goes suddenly breathless with vertigo and fear, remembering _that_ fantasy: _is Ben going to…?_

But then Mitaka leans forward to hand something to Ben – the silvery, glinting chain and clamps – and, as he withdraws, he brushes his hand slightly against Hux’s bare flank. And blushes even more deeply.

Before Hux has time to even _think,_ one of his nipples is pinched so hard that his breath hitches. Then the other.

“ _Beautiful,”_ muses Ben, strumming lightly on the chain between the clamps, which makes Hux’s entire body _pulse_ with need and shame. He’s splayed in his lover’s arms, in full sight of his friend Phasma, and Mitaka. _Mitaka,_ who had brought him coffee and put up with his barked orders until only a few weeks ago. Bared, displayed, open. _Exposed_.

But Mitaka is gazing at him in something very akin to awe. He looks at Phasma, who is sitting regally in her sofa, one leg crossed over the other, as if watching the races at Ascot. She nods, and Mitaka eagerly turns his eyes to Ben. Who also nods.

“Sir,” starts Mitaka, his voice slightly halting, and he sounds so young, so vulnerable, that Hux almost forgets his position, “it’s been an honour to work under you. And I’m so, so grateful for the opportunity you have given me.” His eyes are moist as he turns towards Phasma for an approving look. “My Mistress commands that I thank you.”

And without further ado, Mitaka moves forward and bends over to undo Hux’s trousers. With quick, economic movements, he removes the belt – which Ben grabs –, opens the fly, then gently but firmly tugs the trousers off. Hux is left in his briefs, which are now unmistakably tented.

And then the briefs come off.

In instant reflex, Hux raises his hands to hold them up, but Ben intercepts him and grips him by the wrists. Then brings Hux’s hands to the small of his back, between their bodies, and ties them with his belt. He leans further back, so that Hux is forced to recline even more, and clutches his jaw, drawing his head and neck back in a long, elegant line running from his foot to his crown.

Hux is forced to look up into Ben’s eyes, burning so dark now that he feels he could fall upward into them and be lost for ever. “This is what you deserve, _boy,_ ” hisses Ben. “And you are going to take it.”

Hux gasps at the intensity of his gaze and words, at his helplessness, at how needy and _naked_ he is in front of Phasma, in front of Mitaka, how _exposed_ –

And then gasps again as Mitaka’s mouth closes around his cock. An utterly involuntary groan emerges from somewhere deep in him, and it feels as it Mitaka’s mouth thrums in empathetic echo.

Very quickly, he realises with a sort of horrified astonishment that Mitaka is not only good at giving head. He’s _fantastically_ good. The same efficiency, the same devoted enthusiasm Hux had seen so often at work, he is now experiencing. On his cock. The man is precise, knowing exactly when and how and where to apply pressure, when to release, where to lick, the precise spot on his taint which, pressed just _so,_ will cause Hux’s innards to clench in desperate pleasure.

And he is relentless, too. On and on and on he goes, taking Hux so deep sometimes, so hard and so deep and for so long that, somewhere in the midst of his increasingly blissed-out awareness, Hux wonders that Mitaka doesn’t swoon to the ground with hypoxia. And apparently, either his uvula has been surgically removed or he has been conditioned out of his gag reflex.

“Please…. please….” he is forced to say, eventually, when the pressure finally builds up to an unbearable point in his belly and his crotch seems about to burst open.

“You’ll come when you’re allowed to, boy,” says Ben. And strums the silvery chain between his nipples.

Hux’s body arcs up so violently that he almost tears the chain off, but the clamps hold tight, biting even harder into his flesh. Immediately, he feels hands on him – Ben’s and Mitaka’s – holding him down, restraining him. He’s on the edge now, so close, _so close_ –

And then Mitaka and Ben exchange a glance. And Mitaka slides a spit-slick finger inside Hux, through his clenching tightness, and for a second Hux fully believes that he’s going to _die_ of the sensory overload.

And all the while, Ben is whispering in his ear, the rolling background in his mind: “Good boy… so good… so obedient… so _under control…_ ”

Mitaka brings his mouth down onto Hux’s cock again, and at the same time hooks his finger, deeper and _up_ , so that it curves against his prostate, a querying, invasive probe in his bowels as Ben’s words penetrate his mind.

“ _Master,”_ he cries.

“ _Come._ ”

And everything collapses in the white blast.

***

The first few snowflakes start to fall that evening, timid harbingers. Ben brings out an extra comforter for Hux (who tends to get cold more easily than him), then climbs into bed with him. The mobile phone on the nightstand beeps, and he frowns as he looks at it.

“Something wrong?” asks Hux.

“My mother.” Ben turns the phone off and sets it on the nightstand again. “Armitage – I need to ask you something.”

 _Here it is._ Hux had expected this – he had known, from the moment Ben’s mother intervened to help them, that there would be a price to pay. “Yes?”

“She – she wants to meet you. She would like us to go and stay with her for Christmas. In California.”

Hux stares at him. _That’s it?_

“We don’t have to go if it makes you uncomfortable or anything,” goes on Ben. “I mean, she has helped us out, but I’m not going to allow her to manipulate us, to manipulate _you,_ guilting us into, into –“

“Ben.”

Ben looks up, his full-tilt rant suddenly halted.

“Ben, I’ll be happy to. It’s the least I can do. Besides, that’s where you grew up, isn’t it?”

“In Los Angeles. Yes.”

Hux smiles to himself. No wonder teenage Ben went full black-clad emo goth, having grown up in the land of palm trees, film stars, and eternal sunshine. “I’ve never been out West. And I’d like to see the place you grew up. I’m curious.”

Ben mutters something about not missing much, but Hux can tell that he’s relieved. “You won’t be starting work at Hosnian until January 5th. After seeing my Mom, I want to go to Paris for New Year’s Eve. With you. I want to show you Paris.”

Hux has been in Paris in winter before, and it’s bloody freezing. But Ben looks so excited, so eager to share that with him, that all he can do is nod in agreement. “I’d love to.” And it’s true, too.

They kiss, and, as Ben turn to switch the light off, Hux muses: “I had thought Mitaka was straight.”

“He is.”

“Oh?”

“Dopheld is very much a service submissive. Phasma wanted him… trained. To please men, too.”

Hux is silent for a moment. “That’s where you helped?”

“Partly. Yes.”

Another silence. “You helped… train Mitaka?”

“I helped him realise that everything he did – in that context – was purely for the purpose of serving his Mistress. That I, or any other men he serviced, were just instrumental in his service of his Mistress. And to find enjoyment in that.”

“In – being used by other men. By you.”

“To please his Mistress. Yes.”

Hux falls silent again, but Ben can feel the heat radiating off him in the semi-dark of the room. It’s almost as if he could feel the intensity of his thoughts right now. “Would you send me to be trained by Phasma?”

 _Well, that was... unexpected._ Ben turns towards Hux, his eyes tracing his contours, the outline of his features in the dimness.

“I could. I could ask her to. As a favour to me.” Ben’s voice is quiet, steady. “I could give her a list. Specifications. Of how I would want her to condition you. Break you. How to mould you _._ ” A soft whimper escapes from Hux’s lips, and Ben smiles in the dark. “I could send you to live with them for a while. A household slave, _on loan_. Eating Phasma’s cunt every night while Dopheld fucks you from behind. She would send me pictures. Videos. Progress reports. And by the end, you would have become exactly what I wanted you to be. _My creature.”_

Across from him, Hux hisses. Ben’s hand darts forwards to grab his hand as it slides down towards his crotch. “ _Don’t._ ”

He strokes himself, then slides closer to Hux, pressing his hand against his hard cock, grasping him by the nape with the other hand. He brings his face close to Hux’s, taking in the smell of his heat, of his musk. His panting breath.

“ _Please, sir,_ ” he groans.

Ben grasps both their cocks, already wet with pre-cum, in his huge hand, and strokes, firm and hard.

“Whose are you?”

“ _Yours.”_

He strokes. Harder. Harder.

“And whose am I?”

Hux gasps, shocked out of their mutual rhythm. He stares at Ben, the whites of his eyes visible in the gloom, his breath audible.

“ _Whose_?” demands Ben, stroking again. Close. So close.

And then Hux’s voice, like that of a man possessed: “ _Mine._ ”

Ben plunders Hux’s mouth, and they both sink into each other, deeper and deeper into the dark.

***

Hux wakes, at some point. And for a second can’t remember. And then does. And disbelief fills him again.

_How can it be real? So much?_

_Such happiness?_

_How is it even possible? How am I even allowed?_

He’s always been moved by force, Hux. Forced by circumstances. By his father. By fear. By anger. He’s even sought to be forced, sexually, to be able to let go, to be free, for the short, permitted span.

And there’s no doubt that Ben is an intensely forceful person. He’s forced himself on Hux, as Hux hoped he would. Yet he’s always taken extreme care to make it clear that it was all ultimately his, Hux’s, choice.

This is what he has chosen. For himself. And it’s so, so – _good._

Perhaps Ben is right. Perhaps, after all, it’s what he deserves.

He looks at the glowing figures in the clock. Almost four. A faint glow is seeping through the blinds. He gets up and quietly walks up to the window.

Outside, the snow is falling, a continuous, steady curtain, draping the city in whiteness, clothing the trees, the shrubs, hiding the quotidian ugliness – the waste bins and trash, the street debris – under its pristine cloak. He is reminded of the final paragraph of _The Dead_ :

_His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead._

The living and the dead, he thinks, thinking of his mother. Of his not-dead-at-all father. Rotting in prison, dead to the world, hopefully, soon. Of his past, dead self.

 _But I’m not dead,_ he thinks, furiously. _I’m not. Not yet._

He has opened the blinds slightly, and the brightness of the snow is cast across the dark room, onto the bed. Ben – a light sleeper – stirs, calls sleepily for him.

“Armitage?”

 _I’m alive,_ he thinks, looking at his lover. At his love. _And this is not the fall of the last end. It’s the snow that brings the water for the spring._

“It’s snowing,” he whispers, and slides again into bed with Ben. Against his warmth.

“Tell me a poem,” says Ben, still muzzy with sleep.

“What?”

“A poem. Graves.” He turns towards Hux. “One you like.”

Hux draws closer to Ben. Then, slowly, carefully, he starts to say the words, the spell, out loud in the dark:

_She tells her love while half asleep,  
In the dark hours,  
With half-words whispered low;_

_As Earth stirs in her winter sleep  
And puts out grass and flowers,  
Despite the snow,  
Despite the falling snow. _

Ben sighs, content, and closes his eyes again. Hux places his head on his chest, listening to the beating of Ben’s living heart, and imagines the precious dark blood in his veins, the neurons like webs of stars in the dark dome of his skull.

He closes his eyes, and as he does, he hears the hiss of the drifting snow outside. He listens to it, listens to the sounds in the dark silence of the world, and at last he hears it as he falls into sleep – the soft, secret rustle of the grass and flowers waiting to grow, under the snow.


End file.
